Strangely Oriented Stars
by littleblackdog
Summary: He blamed Rinna for tearing open such a wound in him; these soft, delicate hands could never have twisted their way into his chest otherwise. This woman was a study in contradiction, and for the first time in his life, Zevran hesitated.
1. Chapter 1

Had he not seen the vicious power she wielded firsthand, and the fire in her eyes in the midst of battle, Zevran would not have believed this woman was more than a naïve girl-child. Free from the confines of the Circle Tower for only a few months, her skin still had an almost translucent quality under a smattering of freckles, and she exuded a quiet, studious nature even whilst trudging through harsh Ferelden countryside.

At first glance, everything about her was soft. Soft hands, free from the calluses of labour or battle. Soft robes, draped over even softer looking curves that made Zevran's fingers twitch. Soft, pale eyes that were both too serious and too childlike to be truly what he should want. Soft, lilting voice that made him welcome the vulgar sound of the common tongue for the first time in his life.

He had told her once, quite early in their acquaintance, that he fancied things that were dangerous and exciting. This was true, but surprisingly his mildly insincere flirting at the time had proven prophetic. Certainly she'd demonstrated she had some measure of power and skill by besting him on that desolate stretch of road, but after getting a good look at her, he'd half-blamed that on bad luck and half on his own stupidity. She was an infant in this wide-open world.

It was only a short time, however, before he realised he'd made a tactical error— another one, he supposed. He'd seen the surface, but not the depth, and for an assassin meant to be so skilled at reading people, that was a deadly mistake. She was strong, and dangerous, and undeniably exciting, despite her softness and sweetness.

He did not require as much sleep as the others (mostly due to his training, but also because of his Dalish blood), and he often found himself watching her tent in the wee hours. As far as he knew, only Leliana and the dog had ever noticed his nightly observations, and both had been gracious enough thus far to keep it to themselves. At times he was content to watch from the comfort of his own tent, while at others he slunk closer— close enough to hear her quiet, sleepy murmurs— but never inside. He would only enter her tent when he was finally invited.

On this particular day, he'd felt the need to start his watch early. After the events in Redcliffe she seemed to retreat inward, despite the surprisingly good resolution she'd managed to achieve. She was not a boisterous woman at the best of times, and for this reason he thought perhaps the others might not have noticed her disquiet. They certainly seemed to be treating her as if nothing was amiss, but Zevran couldn't shake this nagging feeling.

Evening was giving way to nightfall, and the camp was settling down after supper when, quite unexpectedly, she stood from her thoughtful recline near the fire with a strange expression on her lovely face. After a few quiet words to Wynne, words that he was too far removed from the mages to hear, she walked into the nearby forest without any further explanation. Noting quickly that Alistair was unaware of her departure— the man's attention focused rather firmly on the cheap looking amulet clutched in his hands— Zevran quickly snuck off after their wayward leader.

It would hardly do to lose half the Grey Wardens in Ferelden to a hungry pack of wolves, and Zevran didn't think her current state of mind lent itself well to alertness. He kept to the shadows and brush, staying as silent as the woods around them. Some light still filtered in through the foliage, but it was dim and warm with the promise of sunset.

What an utterly perfect moment to kill her.

Zevran sighed faintly, watching her step carefully around tree roots and uneven ground. She was quite light on her feet, quite graceful, and he imagined how well she might dance, given the opportunity.

Occasionally on her journey, she would pause and bend to collect some useful herb, pulling a small, thin blade from her belt. She'd cut some section of the plant, or dig up some of its roots, then tuck her prize away in her worn belt pouch. He recognised elfroot, and a few others he thought might be culinary rather than medicinal, but then she knelt beside a thatch of greenery he knew quite well.

She touched the deathroot gently, stroking its thick, waxy leaves with one slender finger. He was in the ideal position to see her smile softly at the potentially lethal plant, and then she was slicing a handful of leaves with meticulous kind of ease. Once finished, she pulled out a scrap of vellum and folded the leaves inside it before sliding them in the pouch with her other herbs. Carefully avoiding getting any of the thick, numbing liquid on her fingers, she wiped her knife clean on the moss at her feet.

It was actually _less_ unexpected than her sudden interest in poisons when her smile cracked a moment later, and she fell back to sit heavily on the forest floor. She sobbed, only once, then buried her face in her bent knees. _This_ was the tension he had noticed, but the flash of pleasure at proving he could actually read this young woman was short-lived. He didn't even spare more than a brief glance at the fascinating view of creamy thigh her position offered (especially coupled with her rather fetching Tevinter-style robes). Her pain was… unpleasant to witness.

Considering his next move, Zevran slithered back through the trees a short distance, then walked towards her again with audible footfalls. He rolled his eyes when it became apparent that his efforts were hardly necessary— even clomping about the underbrush like a half-blind bear didn't get her attention. She was so utterly inattentive to her surroundings that it sometimes took all his willpower not to just pick her up and shake some common sense into her overly sheltered brain.

He cleared his throat and her head jolted up, panic flashing across her features. When she saw him, however, her terror fled, replaced by surprise and obvious embarrassment. Zevran wasn't sure how he felt about her apparent lack of fear around him— the other members of their party certainly didn't approve of their leader's trusting nature, and it certainly wasn't something Zevran had expected.

She was scrubbing desperately at the dampness on her cheeks, and perhaps it would have been kinder not to mention her distress. Less interesting, however.

"What troubles you, my beautiful Warden?" He was not so cruel as to make light of the situation, and his tone was truly concerned rather than lascivious. "May I sit?"

"Of course." As he'd anticipated, her politeness overtook her humiliation before she could stop herself. Her voice sounded even more delicate than usual, which meant the words were nearly swallowed up in the quiet noises of the trees. "I mean… Oh, of course Zevran."

He was beside her in an instant, sinking smoothly onto the spongy moss close enough that their shoulders touched, and before she could say anything else he grasped her hands to stop their wringing.

He brushed his thumbs over her velvety skin, heartened when she gently squeezed his fingers. "I do not mean to pry, my dear, but if there is something you wish to talk about..." He shot her a gently playful look. "I promise you will not shock me."

Her eyes flitted away from him as the pinkness began to creep over her cheeks, but she did not pull away. "It's just— no, it's nothing. I'm simply overwrought and being childish."

"As you wish." He waited, taking the opportunity to study her closely. He considered the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, sweeping down into the valley of her bosom. She'd been travelling about gloomy Ferelden for... about two months before his fated ambush. Was that, on top of the weeks they'd been travelling together, enough time to account for the freckles on the swells of her breasts, or were they perhaps her natural appearance? Were they limited to her newly sun-touched skin, or could there be others hidden away?

"I feel like a fool." He blinked, shaking off his absorbing contemplations. She still wasn't looking at him, and her voice had the threat of more tears layered deep within it. "That mage who poisoned the arl, Jowan. He was my friend, my _dearest_ friend, and even after he used me, and betrayed me, and nearly got me killed or _worse_, I still—" She licked her lips, and her hands twisted around until her fingers were entwined with his. "I let him out of that cell. He's a blood mage, and I set him loose on the world without any punishment for what he'd done. None of the others understood… Maker's breath, _I_ don't understand why I did it."

He stayed silent, sensing her need for an ear rather than an opinion. "I wish you'd been there, Zevran. I just needed one person at my back who didn't _care_ if I let Jowan go free, or even if they did they wouldn't give me that _look_. The arlessa had him tortured, for goodness sake! They would have executed him, and I just couldn't—"

"I am sorry I was not there." He tugged their shared grip slightly, encouraging her to finally turn to face him. She did, nearly making him shiver at the anger sparking icily (and rather surprisingly) in her expression, but it was thankfully not directed at him. "I am certain such a decision did not meet with the approval of our resident almost-templar, no?"

"No." She shifted closer, and for a moment it almost seemed she might rest her head on his shoulder. Alas. "And neither did it endear me to a certain senior enchanter, who can still make me feel like a naughty child with barely a glance, or the magic-despising qunari."

Choosing an infiltration team filled with individuals of such firm, unbending morals would certainly not have been his first choice, but such judgments were not his to make. "Do you still stand by your decision to release your friend?"

"Yes, I do." Zevran shrugged, which he hoped also served as a reminder to his companion that there was indeed a rather comfortable shoulder quite nearby, perfect for resting upon.

"That is all I need to know. I can hardly judge a man for poisoning another, although he was rather sloppy about the whole thing, and I care very little about blood magic so long as it is not _my_ blood."

Her mouth twitched up into a small, wiry smile. "That's very practical, Zev. Thank you."

There were many ways to relieve tension, and he thought he'd done quite well thus far with simply being an attentive listener. He could hardly be expected to behave so chastely all the time, however, especially not with such a delectable woman by his side.

"Mmm. I do like how you say my name, my dear. I wonder… in the throes of pleasure, would you gasp it for me?"

She flushed a lovely shade of deep rose, and this time when she hid her face it was with her hot cheek pressed against his arm. He chuckled amiably, enjoying the chase.

"You're awful," she grumbled, and he leaned down to whisper against her ear.

"I am _marvellous_." Feeling her mild tremor, the anticipation began to curl through him. "Allow me to prove it to you." The quality of her silence was two answers in one— no, for now. Perhaps, for later. Carefully, he extracted one hand from her grip and lifted her chin, revelling in the hint of desire in her wide-eyed gaze.

"Zev?" It was more of a question, and it wasn't good enough, not when she wasn't objecting. He slid his fingers along her jaw, tilting her head just slightly back. He became aware of the footsteps approaching them, crunching through deadfall, but she showed no signs of hearing a thing.

"Wait… say it now." Without further warning, he darted in, sliding his lips up the line of her throat.

"Oh, Zev—" Her voice was breathy now, and he turned his toothy smirk into a gentle nip. The feel of his teeth made her entire body arch, rather fantastically. How _responsive_. "Zev!"

Given the limits of how far the larger seduction had progressed, Zevran could not have asked for a better moment for Alistair to find them. It was especially satisfying that she was entirely oblivious to their audience as she pressed against him, well and truly gasping.

"What—" Of course, the inconsiderate lout didn't have the courtesy to retreat silently from his intrusion into such an intimate encounter, and at the sound of his voice she startled back into awareness and away from Zevran's mouth. Alistair was an interesting blotchy crimson from his neck to his hairline, and the mixture of shock and anger in his expression was hardly the most intelligent angle he could have taken. Zevran knew that she still harboured some lingering hurt, and to have any measure of Alistair's anger turned on her again did not bode well for the unfortunate man.

She did not speak, didn't try to explain anything away, and Zevran wasn't about to supply any explanations either. Alistair fumbled with her lack of response, taking an uncertain step backwards. "Oh, well, I see. Ah. Pardon me."

It was difficult not to laugh, watching a rather brawny warrior turn tail and bolt back towards camp like a hare, but Zevran managed. He noticed with no small amount of pleasure that she had not freed her fingers from his.

She watched Alistair disappear into the trees, her expression not exactly regretful, then whipped her head around and glared at him dangerously. "How long did you know he was there?"

"For only a moment, I swear." It was true; Alistair had only been standing _there_ for a moment. "You are a deadly distraction, it seems."

"Liar," she growled, but there was very little ire in it. Then she barked out a shockingly harsh laugh. "I wonder if he worried more for your safety or mine."

_That_ was unexpected, and it threw Zevran for quite a loop. "As I'm not entirely certain he would piss on me were I on fire, I believe we can assume he was worried for you. Why—" He touched her face again, needing to examine her expression. "Why would you doubt that?"

She took a deep breath, and her flare of anger appeared to ebb away into a bland, resigned kind of sadness. "He's just… I've dealt with templars and their prejudices almost my entire life, and as kind and friendly as Alistair is, I don't think he's entirely comfortable with magic— _my_ magic, specifically." He could tell that her focus was wandering, her eyes shifting to stare blindly at the forest floor as her voice thinned into something quiet and distracted. "Or perhaps it's not just him. Nearly everyone I've met since I left the Tower has been afraid of me."

He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze again and turn the conversation back into light-heartedness. "Well, in their defence, you _can_ make their innards boil and their eyes explode."

She yanked her hand free from his, slamming her fists against her knees. "And _you_ can poison their food or slit their throats; Alistair can cleave their heads in two with little strain! I'm not some kind of dangerous animal!"

Once again, foolishly, he had miscalculated. Was she truly so difficult to deal with, or had she cast some spell that turned him into a bumbling idiot? "Hush, my darling girl. I meant no offence— I know you are no animal."

"But I _am_ dangerous." Without any hesitation, he slid one arm behind her and pulled her into a snug embrace.

"You would be a terrible Grey Warden if that were not true." Any obvious struggle left in her melted away, and she curled herself against his chest with a soft, heartbreaking sound. This was… well, simply not what he'd planned. He was not a serious man, except about killing, and even then he was never so dour as this waif of a mage seemed to insist upon being.

Why did he yearn to make her smile?

"Are you afraid of me, Zevran?"

"Hm." He took a moment, not only because he actually needed the time to reflect on the question, but also because she deserved to _believe_ he considered his answer, rather than simply pandering. "I would say… no. No, I'm not. Perhaps I should be— I have been told I _embrace_ the threat of death far too readily." He tightened his arms just briefly, striving for even a hint of levity to re-enter the proceedings. She did not laugh, but the air around her seemed a little less foreboding. "In the spirit of fairness, my dear, do you fear me?"

"Why would I?" She glanced up at him through lashes nearly as fair as jasmine petals, and he marvelled at the way this inexperienced woman could surprise him with her natural allure. "I could boil your innards, right?"

He couldn't help his quiet laughter, especially when he saw she was indeed smiling just slightly. "Too true, though if given the option, could you please choose some other method to dispose of me? That does sound particularly unpleasant."

Her fingers had begun tracing the small cracks and marks marring his leathers, across his stomach and side, and he idly imagined what they might feel like against the skin beneath. "If it ever comes up, I'll keep that in mind. Only fireballs to kill Zevran."

"You are too kind; thank you."

Despite the tears, the anger, and the interruptions, things seemed to be going quite well. It was possible, though not guaranteed, that he would get a proper kiss out of her before the night was out. Then, tragically, she sighed. "I should go back to camp. Alistair's probably throwing a fit, and the others will worry."

He kept his opinions of such fits and worries to himself, but he was not about to give up so easily. "Will you at least allow me to escort you? The forest is rather darker now than when you left."

He hadn't expected the giggle he received in response, but then she waved her hand and a globe of pale green light emanated from the tips of her fingers. The glow of it was surreal, but not overpowering, and the orb began floating gently around their heads.

"Darkness, I can deal with. I wouldn't object to an escort, though," she murmured, and he noticed the shy happiness brighten her eyes as she watched him study the glowing ball with clear fascination. "You can touch it, if you'd like."

He could hardly be blamed for leering at her then, licking his lips as he lost all interest in anything but drinking in the closeness and the scent of her. "Oh my sweet, these things you say."

"That's not what I meant," she protested weakly, but she didn't flinch as he leaned in closer— close enough that he could feel her shallow, rapid breaths against his cheek. "Zevran…"

Lightly, with just the barest hint of moisture, he brushed his lips against her tantalizing skin, just grazing the corner of her mouth. She didn't turn to meet him, but neither did she retreat.

One day soon she would meet him halfway, and it would be glorious— he thrummed with the anticipation of it. Perhaps his strange yearning would cease once he saw her smile in ecstasy, or afterwards in satisfied bliss.

"Let us go," he whispered, and her delicious little shiver nearly tested his resolve, but then without further temptation he slid smoothly to his feet and reached down to offer her a hand up. Her fingers were cool against his skin, and as she stood he made sure to tug her close and stroke his free hand ever so briefly against her hip. The glowing orb ducked and weaved around them, beginning to fly more erratically.

She kept hold of his hand when they began walking, and that was simply one more situation from which Zevran was surprised he did not withdraw… nor did he _wish_ to withdraw. It was not especially sensual to allow her to swing his arm along with hers, all without drawing her against him, or stroking the inside of her wrist, or any of the dozens of ways he could hold a woman's hand and make her swoon.

Sooner than he might have desired, the light of the campfire broke through the trees. When she stopped just inside the tree line, he was pleasantly surprised that she pulled him near, and utterly charmed by the sweet way she bit her lip and glanced up at him.

"Here," she said so shyly, and he blinked when she shoved a folded paper packet towards him— he hadn't even noticed that she'd retrieved it from her belt pouch, and his distraction was worrisome. "I… These are for you."

He took the deathroot leaves gingerly, trying to keep the bulk of his astonishment from showing on his face. She'd thought of him, even in her pensive, troubled state, and he was ignorant of what one was meant to do in such a situation.

She saved him the bother of thinking of something, however, when she suddenly leaned in and pressed a kiss against his cheek, then sprinted out of the trees and back to camp. 


	2. Chapter 2

"I heard you talking to Wynne before." Zevran glanced up from scrubbing the mud and slush off his boots, unsure of the meaning behind his lovely companion's tenor.

"Oh? About the terrible path I've followed in my life, and my black, uncaring heart?" He braced himself to deflect another lecture when she frowned and hopped up to sit beside him on his boulder perch. Somehow the idea of _her_ giving him grief over remorse and morality felt much more unpleasant than being cornered by their other, much more matronly mage.

"What? You don't have a black, uncaring heart. That's an awful thing to say." She sounded a little angry, and Zevran peered at her suspiciously. "Did she say that? Senior enchanter or no, I'm a Grey Warden now, and I wanted you to come along with us— you're just as much a part of this team as she is. Do you want me to speak with her?"

Zevran was taken aback by her reaction, but also by the idea that she valued his presence enough to defend him. He was rather used to the kind of team dynamic in which he was expendable. Grievances were hardly aired often in such groups, and for good reason. "Well, I… Thank you, my dear, but no. I can handle simple challenges to my principles myself."

Setting his boot brush aside, he leaned back on his hands and allowed one arm to stray behind her back, although not touching. As enticing and useful as her enchantment-enhanced robes might be, he still noted with some concern that her exposed skin had taken on a faintly bluish tinge under its usual fair shade. He had thought Ferelden cold before, but here, as they travelled farther into these blighted Frostback Mountains in search of some backwater speck of a village, he understood that cold was a very relative sensation. He remembered being cold nearly every step from the docks in Denerim to the castle in Redcliffe, but _this_ cold was an entirely different animal and distinctly unpleasant.

"Where is your cloak, my darling girl? If you catch your death and leave me to fend for myself with this motley crew, I will be sorely put out." At the very mention of it, she suddenly seemed to become aware of the temperature and its affect on her tender flesh. With a startled little sound, she tucked her arms tightly around herself, leaning perhaps unconsciously closer to him.

"It was warmer by the fire," she squeaked, and with an amused chuckle he flicked the edge of his own thick cloak around her shoulders, pulling her near. She didn't object or struggle against what had suddenly become a rather familiar embrace, but she did pull her slender legs up against her chest, enfolding her entire body inside the fur-lined wool. Not entirely in the interest of keeping them both fully ensconced, Zevran's arm wrapped firmly around her, his hand resting lightly on the outside of her thigh. She was cold to the touch, but he could feel the bite of it leeching out and being overtaken by his own heat.

She was still curled around herself rather tightly, but after a moment of delicious wriggling he glanced down to find her fingers wrapped around the strap of his baldric. With cheeks perhaps slightly pinker than they'd been shortly before, she smiled up at him. "Thank you, Zevran."

"Think nothing of it, my sweet. I am simply a wanton opportunist." When he squeezed her briefly, she giggled against his chest in a way that was almost too childlike to bear, but also just sultry enough to appreciate.

"You know, I came over here for a reason," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder in a way that begged to be kissed, but with an expression that clearly indicated she had more to say. He could certainly be patient— to a point. "You asked Wynne about the Circle today. Something about moonlight orgies, wasn't it?"

And with that, the conversation had officially become incredibly promising. "Oh, you heard that, did you? And you didn't feel a need to offer your own insights into the escapades of your fellow mages?"

The small, wicked quirk of her lips sent a wave of anticipation through him. "I think you scandalise Wynne enough for the both of us, _my dear_."

He feigned agony, lolling his head and clutching the cloak tighter around them. "You would not tease me so cruelly, would you?" The lolling allowed his lips close enough to brush over her brow, and he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "I beg you— tell me it is true."

"Well," she whispered back. "I can't speak for the entire Circle, but—"

"You flea-bitten _mongrel!_" Morrigan's shriek cut through the mood like a poisoned blade, and Zevran was abruptly and irrationally livid. Reining in his burst of temper before it could even show on his face, he reluctantly loosened his hold as her attention turned to the nearby squabble. It was hardly surprising when she moved to get up and play peacemaker, but then a gust of frigid wind brought her snuggling back against him with a squeal.

"Merciful Andraste," she murmured, hugging him tightly around the middle. "Unless the archdemon swoops in for tea, I'm not leaving this cloak!"

Perhaps the cold was not so very bad after all.

* * *

This Haven was a truly terrible place— eerie children with finger bones as play-toys, bloody altars the like of which he hadn't seen since he left Antiva, and everything was _uphill_ in the bleeding snow. The third time he nearly slipped on the slimy, bastardly muck was almost enough to make him turn around and join the others back at their nearby camp, but the memory of Sten's sword slicing down towards her soft, exposed neck— barely a heartbeat before her desperately cast spell froze the giant solid— was enough to keep him trudging along for the time being.

It would be the height of hypocrisy to fault her judgement in allowing the qunari to stay with them after his failed coup; apparently travelling with companions who have tried to kill her was a personal preference. Still, it was not unreasonable to stay near her, at least until his heart stopped trying to escape through his throat.

He wasn't about to let his fear show, however, nor his unsteadiness. He took purposeful, not overly cautious-looking steps, and he didn't pull her to the side and physically check every inch of her for injury… although the latter could be quite fun, and he could probably convince the lot of them (himself included) that he was simply being lecherous. He could sense the tension in the village ratchet up every moment they continued to wander around, and he knew they were being watched— from the dark windows of houses and the trees around them. _That_ was what was making him so anxious. Of course.

When the villagers finally attacked, it was quick and messy, although at least the smell was preferable to stinking darkspawn blood. Most were unarmed and dressed in simple clothes (making combat almost tragically swift), but a few of them were well armoured and seemingly well trained. She was thankfully staying to higher ground, peppering spells into the melee, and as he yanked his dagger free from some poor rube's kidney, he noticed the dark burst of magic she sent hurtling at the one swinging the very large maul. He knew that spell, and with a flick of his wrist his skinning knife was free from his belt and embedded in the man's face, just under his left eye. The subsequent explosion was satisfying in the utter chaos it created, and in that Zevran had managed to remain relatively free of the gore.

At the end of it, Alistair was cursing as he tried to wipe the guts and offal from his previously shining mail, while Sten was a stoic monolith. Zevran could guess at the giant's mood after being reminded of the sheer destruction she could lay down— yet there Sten stood with only minor abrasions on his hand, and likely a headache Zevran remembered vividly from his own failed attack. Being frozen solid was not something easily shrugged off, but it was healthier than having one's innards detonate over all and sundry.

She was standing in the midst of the bodies, palms out and eyes closed, and the flickering of blue smoke meant she was… refilling, as it were. "That's creepy," Alistair muttered, clearly loud enough that he meant to be heard. "Can't you just drink a potion or something?"

Her eyes fluttered open, but the smoke didn't stop rising. "All right, Alistair, but only if you drink one for every one of mine. That way we'll be able to deal with the lyrium withdrawal together."

He paled visibly, even under all the blood, and took a jerking step towards her. "That's not— I'm, oh Maker I'm sorry. I'm an idiot; I wasn't thinking."

She took a deep breath as the air around her began to clear, then with a shift of her cloak she was back to herself, moving carefully out of the carnage. "No, it's fine. I know my some of my magic is… morbid."

For a moment it seemed like Alistair might reach out to touch her, but thankfully he kept his sticky, gory hands to himself. "I didn't mean that," he insisted, but she waved him off with a smile that was miles too kind, in Zevran's estimation.

"It's fine, I said. I can hardly blame you for being moody when you're covered in entrails, can I? Now, let's keep moving."

* * *

For some reason, the snow seemed less challenging to manoeuvre through in his new boots— the boots she had found in that unpleasant little village, and given to him for no other reason than she thought they might make him happy.

Somewhere between the familiar stench of the leather, the confused fluttering in his stomach, and the shy little twinkle in her pale blue eyes, he realised he _was_ happy. Quite, in fact.

* * *

"So that was your Jowan, yes?" He waited to ask until they'd safely bypassed the high dragon for the second time, exiting the temple ruins and trudging back down towards camp. Besides the fact that he hardly wanted to distract her during their journey through the Gaunlet, it had also taken him that long for his curiosity to overcome his good sense.

Her back stiffened, but her expression was simply sad when she turned to him, hugging her cloak around herself. "I suppose, in a way. It looked like him, and it was probably created from my own memories of him." Surprisingly, her mouth twitched slightly into something vaguely amused but still melancholy. "He's a greasy little louse of a man, but we've been friends since we were children. He protected me from some of the older girls when I first arrived at the Tower." Glancing back at where Alistair and Sten were hiking along the uneven path behind them, she reached out and latched on to Zevran's arm, leaning in close and lowering her voice. "I'd just turned five years old, and I'd always been slight for my age. They were all bigger and stronger than me, all human too, and they cornered me in the dorms and said they were going to clip my ears."

He was hardly shocked that such intolerance lingered even in the Circle Tower, where elven mages were meant to be treated as equals, but the thought of her as a small, frightened child in such a situation made his palms itch for the weight of his blades. She sighed softly, obviously getting caught up in the memories. "They were just trying to scare me, probably to make sure the new girl fell in line, but I screamed, and then somehow Jowan was there running them off, threatening to get the templars. I remember thinking how brave he was, and being amazed that some shem boy who didn't even know me had come to my rescue."

Zevran chuckled at the way the slur slid so naturally from her mouth, even though this was the very first time he'd ever heard her say such a thing. It was easy to forget that this delicate butterfly had been snatched away from some filthy alienage before the place could make her hard, but not before it left any marks at all.

Then she was gazing up at him, and the faint sheen of unshed tears in her eyes was startling. "I can't believe he didn't run when I set him free— the arl certainly won't just let him go. He's… he'll likely be executed, or made tranquil. I'm not sure which is worse."

Guiding her around a fallen tree, Zevran considered how tactful to be. From all he'd heard of this Jowan, the man was an idiot, and not merely because he'd chosen to pursue some chantry initiate over the beautiful woman currently clinging to Zevran's bicep. "You've done all you can for him, my dear. More perhaps than he deserves, and you know this."

"Yes I know, it's just—" Without warning, she stumbled over some snow-covered obstacle, and if they hadn't been so close together then Zevran would have had a chance of keeping them both upright. As it was, he was only nimble enough to roll mid-topple, landing hard on his side but keeping her from smashing her face against the frozen ground. She was a petite woman, but she still knocked the wind from his lungs when she fell half on his chest.

Before he could catch his breath enough to ask if she was injured, Alistair was looming over them, lifting her into his arms like she was a doll of the thinnest porcelain. "Maker's breath, what happened? Are you all right?"

She was obviously shaken, but it was rather satisfying that she wriggled out of her fellow Warden's embrace to bend down and check on Zevran's health. "Yes, yes I'm just dizzy. Zev, are you hurt?" Her hands were skimming over his chest, checking for damage; he shook his head while sucking in some needed air. If Alistair's dark glare could literally kill, Zevran knew he'd be nursing more than bruised ribs.

"Perfectly fine, sweet lady." He cleared his throat, wincing just slightly as he climbed back to his feet with her assistance. "Though I will be glad to leave this wretched mountain behind us." She was biting her lip, looking guilty and embarrassed, and without thinking he reached out and cupped her cheek gently. Alistair may have growled, but Zevran pointedly ignored him in favour of smirking at her saucily. "Who would have thought you the kind of woman to tumble a man in front of an audience, hm?"

Her blush was hot against his hand, but she didn't pull away. Alistair made an exaggerated gagging sound, then clomped off noisily, grousing to himself.

* * *

It was late, nearly time for watch shifts to begin, when Zevran noticed that she and Alistair had disappeared off to the edge of camp. The pair of them were talking about something, and even from his seat some distance away, Zevran could pinpoint the exact moment when the other man finally confronted her with his attraction. Alistair's interest in his fellow Warden had been clear to Zevran when he'd first awoken, tied up on that desolate road and surrounded by the corpses of his unfortunate mercenary team, but their dear lady had been oblivious.

By what he could see of her reaction, she had _remained_ oblivious until now. She wrung her hands, her posture tense, but Alistair seemed intent on shoving his way through such trivial matters as her evident discomfort. It was not at all surprising when Alistair bent down and pulled her into a kiss, but Zevran felt something clench in his chest at the way her hands fluttered up to rest on his shoulders, not pushing the advance away.

He narrowed his eyes with some amount of resentment, but he supposed Alistair could offer her much more in line with what she deserved than he could. A romp or two would have been glorious, but she was a sensitive woman, not some strumpet. Zevran had little doubt she would choose to remain on friendly terms with him, anyway, even if Alistair objected. She was nothing if not kind and determined, and she seemed to care for him in some manner at least. Having such a woman as a friend was not an entirely unattractive concept.

He'd allowed his attention to wander, not quite so masochistic as to sit and watch the pair of them drink each other in so sweetly, but a sudden commotion drew his gaze back. She was backing away from the man, one hand curled against her chest in a protective stance, and when Alistair took a step towards her, she shook her head sharply and bolted. Zevran had obviously missed something vital, and that simply wouldn't do.

She'd already scampered over to crawl inside her tent, very clearly avoiding Zevran's gaze as she hid herself away, but Alistair was still standing dumbstruck in the shadows. Should he— _could_ he approach the man without risking a brawl? Alistair was a sensible, if silly gentleman most of the time, but in matters of sex… Zevran was unsure.

He contented himself to wait, at least until the tension cooled somewhat. Then he would discover what had transpired, and what precisely it meant for his growing… _relations_ with her.

* * *

Once he gave himself the time to consider his options, it seemed much more prudent to avoid Alistair and focus his inquiry on her instead. He waited most of the night, catching a nap here and there, until finally her tent flap rustled and he watched her slip out to relieve Leliana and Wynne from their watch shift. Her mabari trotted over to lie next to her as she settled in to sit and stare at the fire (not a brilliant strategy for keeping watch on a dark forest, but at least the dog was ever vigilant), still looking just as confused as when she'd made her escape.

Zevran lingered inside his own tent for a few moments, not wishing it to be so very obvious that he'd been waiting for her, but then his curiosity won out once more. The dog growled as he approached, more an announcement than a warning, and when she looked up at him he glimpsed something in her face he'd expected weeks ago, but had not seen. Fear.

He held up his hands, allowing the gesture to convey his peaceful intentions. "Be still, my darling, please. I only wish to ask if you are well."

She pressed one hand against her forehead, and her shoulders slumped pitifully. "I don't know how I am. I never— I mean, in the Circle Tower things are _different_." Noting that she had not offered him a seat, Zevran carefully lowered himself to the ground nearby, but not beside her.

"Different in what way? You have certainly had admirers before, no?"

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs as her gaze flickered about everywhere but on him. "Well, yes, sort of. But there are only mages and the Chantry in the Tower, and relations with templars or priests are strictly forbidden. Even relations with other mages are discouraged, so it's not as if I've ever been _courted_ or any such thing. I had no idea—" When she choked on what might have been a quiet sob, he cut in.

"No idea Alistair has developed feelings for you?" She nodded quickly, looking intently at her own knees. "Not to confuse the issue further, but I must ask— you are aware that I have an interest in you, are you not?" Another brief nod, and Zevran felt some tightness bleed from his muscles. "And this knowledge causes you distress?"

"No," she blurted, and had he blinked he would have missed the fleeting glance with which she favoured him. "Sort of— I don't _know_. I thought Alistair and I were friends, and he's so very sweet, but…"

The silence was thick and heavy, and finally Zevran couldn't stand it. "But what?"

Incredibly, she seemed to fold herself even smaller, pulling her legs in tighter and hiding her face in her knees. When she spoke, her voice was muffled but still audible if one were to strain. Zevran strained, and shifted closer. "It's… I didn't know he thought of me that way, and I don't… I'm having a hard enough time with how much I like _you_—" The words broke off into a soft whine, and for possibly the first time in his life when it came to matters such as this, Zevran hesitated.

"Sweet woman," he murmured, skimming the back of his hand lightly down her calf. Her shudder was so delicious. "If you wish, I will step aside— No," he said firmly, if softly, interrupting whatever she snapped her head up to interject. "Just listen. Alistair is a fine man, so far as I can tell, and he can offer you… far more than I. I could offer pleasure for today, for the moment, but I can make no promises. You—" He cleared his throat harshly, annoyed with how rough his voice had gone. This was ridiculous; he'd only known this woman for little more than two months. "You deserve someone who will make promises."

She was staring at him now, where before she could barely glance his way. There was a distinct sense of examination radiating from her, and Zevran bristled slightly at the scrutiny. "And what about us," she asked gently. "Would we remain friends?"

It _hurt_, and for a moment he was furious with his beloved Rinna for tearing open such a wound in him. Now, apparently, he was vulnerable to this insufferable kind of weakness. "I would hope, my dear." He forced a smile. "Some friendships are worth pursuing."

"And what if I chose you?" His heart was suddenly very loud, and the sound of it startled him. "Would we still be friends, no matter what happened later? Could you promise me that?"

He needed to push her away _now_. It was foolish and dangerous to allow himself even a dalliance with a woman who could make him feel like— who could make him _feel_.

"If you like," he heard someone say, very quietly, and it almost sounded like his own voice, but it couldn't be. His own voice was meant to reject such a pathetic, stupid notion and drive her into a more suitable man's waiting arms. His own hand was _not_ meant to reach out and touch the velvet softness of her cheek, and his own legs should be standing him up and walking away. Immediately.

"Zevran—" When her head tilted and her lips brushed against his palm, then the inside of his wrist, Zevran felt the world righting itself. Sex, he understood. The heat lancing through him, down deep into his gut, was as familiar and comforting as it was erotic.

He could do _this_. He could maintain these kinds of feelings— the kind that shoved all the strange warmth and softness aside. Though not completely aside… he was not quite so entrenched in denial that he would ignore the deep tenderness he felt for this woman.

But of course she couldn't simply let things continue so smoothly. She was _impossible_.

"I've got to speak with Alistair," she whispered, ducking away from him, and it took every ounce of self-restraint Zevran possessed not to seize upon her like some sort of beast. As if sensing his tenuous control, the hulking mabari curled up nearby began to growl softly, and had Zevran been the kind of man who tended to do so, he might have wept. There were so many interesting, attractive women in the world, and he could personally vouch for the fact that some of the very best of them weren't this bleeding difficult to bed.

He was becoming sensitive to the complexities of travelling in a friendly company, however, so he did not press the issue. His dear lady had no interest in alienating her fellow Warden, and Zevran had no interest in alienating her. He could whine and moan, or he could see this as an exercise in patience, sweetening the final reward.

"Of course," he replied with forced ease, realising that he would have to be the one to retreat. This was her watch shift. "I suppose I shall retire, then."

Wynne was right— he'd lived a terrible, sinful life, and this was his punishment. He was probably still in Antiva with his lifeblood staining filthy floorboards, and this entire expedition was some complex hallucination dreamt up by his dying mind. Perhaps he'd even made it as far as that desolate highway, and because this was the harsh, uncaring world he knew of as _reality_ and not some romantic fantasy, he'd been killed outright during his failed assassination. Gorgeous, benevolent marks did not spare the lives of their would-be killers, and they certainly didn't favour them with the kind of smile that was currently gracing her exquisite lips.

"Thank you, Zev." Her expression, combined with the warm glitter in her eyes was captivating, and Zevran couldn't help himself. Slow enough so as not to startle the mabari, he rose fluidly from sitting to kneeling, and the move allowed him to shift very close to her. Through the thick aroma of wood smoke, she smelled of warm honey and the violet tea she always brewed for herself before bed.

"I would appreciate a proper show of gratitude at a later time," he purred softly, reaching out to stroke his fingers ever so lightly down the side of her throat. When she leaned into the touch, he took the opportunity to nuzzle his lips against her jaw. Quiet words were drawn out of him almost unconsciously by the heady, foreign scent of her— no spice, no blood, no death. "_Quiero hacerte el amor, cariño mío_. Oh, _me encandilas_."

"Un_fair_," she gasped, but her hand still tangled in his hair when he skimmed the tip of his tongue around the delicate taper of her ear. If he weren't so utterly sure she would regret taking pleasure with him before she'd spoken to Alistair, Zevran would have worshiped her right there in the warmth of the firelight, under a blanket of strangely oriented stars.

Instead, he pulled away with great reluctance, sliding his hand up to cup her cheek. "_Voy a follarte una noche pronto, amado mio_. I will dream of you."

* * *

_AN: First, I don't speak Spanish-- corrections welcome (thank you, **Ilargi iluna**__!). Second, it was much easier to write about my mage choosing Zevran and being a little bit mean to Alistair than it was to turn Alistair down in-game, and that's goddamn weird. _

_Still, if I were to back the narrative up a bit, Fem!Surana had been a little pissed off with Alistair since the Circle Tower (a little compassion at the door, rather than 'they're probably all dead anyway' would have gone over better). I might continue this later, probably with a little smut since it is Zevran, but I'm wrapped up in **Reconstruct** right now, and way too much Mass Effect. Poor Surana must wait._


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Please take note of the change in rating, from **Teen** to **Mature**. Hey, don't look at me like that— what the heck did you expect from Zev, anyway? Heh. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

He had always been rather… tactile, even as a scrawny little whelp in the whorehouse. After the occasional vicious beatings, he was the only one of the children still reaching for an adult's hand, begging silently for a simple embrace that only very rarely came. He remembered every single time his pathetic pleading resulted in a ruffle of his matted hair, or perhaps even the weight of an arm sliding around his bony back for a too-brief moment. He revelled in the feel of another's body near his, perhaps as some desperate, hollow assurance that he was no so very, _painfully_ alone as he felt— but then reality would descend again.

He'd been a stupid, sentimental child.

Then later, when it was made clear that the Crows wanted him for more than simply his quick reflexes and malleable mind, it was suddenly as if he were back in that thrice-damned brothel— but no. No, he did not have to beg for affection. He did not need the flicker of care across some filthy prostitute's bruised face to fulfil him. He was a tool, certainly, being used just as blatantly as his former caretakers had been, but he was no longer some simpering little boy. He was the shadow you thought you saw, just before you saw no more. He was a blade made flesh: smooth, sinuous, and built to kill. He was a man to whom others begged— for one more touch, for his lips on their flesh, and for their lives. If he wished for the comfort of a body next to his, such things were easily achieved.

Here, slogging out of the Frostback Mountains and back to Redcliffe Castle, Zevran was uncomfortably reminded of exactly how alone one could feel, even surrounded by others.

She would not look at him, hadn't looked at him for hours now, and he felt a chill creep through him that had little to do with the blighted Ferelden weather. He was not even permitted to walk beside her— when they'd broken camp that morning, and he'd attempted to take his usual place (perhaps slightly closer, given their new understanding), she'd actually flinched away from him. No explanation was offered, and Zevran was suddenly too furious to ask.

Nearly twenty years removed from that whorehouse, and he was still a stupid, sentimental child.

"_Brasca_," he snarled quietly, but loud enough that Leliana shot him a look of calf-eyed concern. He barely noticed, too busy trying not to watch their troubled leader clomp and stumble her way along the well-worn trade route they were currently travelling, carrying herself with none of her usual grace.

And then there was Alistair, shuffling far enough behind the party that everyone would know he was _distraught_— back bent, shoulders slumped, and Zevran was surprised a dark little rain cloud hadn't formed directly over his fat head. No wonder he felt like a blasted child— his competition had the maturity of a spoiled brat.

Of course, it wasn't simply Alistair's sulking. No, a terrible tragedy had befallen the sweet, innocent little templar boy, and of course the lecherous whoreson of an elf would receive the blame. It didn't matter that _she_ had chosen, or that Zevran had been prepared to walk away— Alistair was glaring daggers at his back, Wynne kept glancing at him with blatant disapproval, and even the bleeding dog was giving him the eye. Perhaps if he were forever munching on cheese, the mongrel would have taken his side.

* * *

With Arl Eamon's life hanging rather tenuously on the pouch of ashes tucked carefully away in a certain young mage's rucksack, they did not stop for a midday meal, and with one final push as the sun began to sink lower on the horizon, they managed to stagger into Redcliffe Castle just after dark. Zevran hardly cared if the Arl woke, or sprouted horns and turned into a halla— when both of the Wardens, Wynne and Leliana all dashed up to the old man's bedside, he skulked off to find the kitchens. Perhaps a full belly would cheer him, but likely not. The castle still stunk of corpses, and that was somehow morbidly satisfying to his current mood.

"Hardly surprising," he muttered, and of course it was. Hardly surprising that Alistair, who was so deep into his first infatuation that he barely came up for air, would handle rejection poorly. Hardly surprising that such a gentle, benevolent woman would take the tantrum seriously, thus encouraging an enormous snit that might have fizzled out immediately if it had been addressed with the proper firmness. And it would be hardly surprising when she changed her mind, realised that her camaraderie and _partnership_ with her fellow Warden was more important than any dalliance, and Zevran would once again be out on his ear. No surprises there at all.

Supper was long over, and thus the kitchens were free of any hardnosed cook but rife with elven scullions and other servants, some cleaning and others eating their own evening fare. Pushing aside any ill will that flared in his heart at the sight of these elves, content to live placidly under human subjugation, Zevran inclined his head at the scruffy little group. They eyed him— and his blades— with mistrust, but no one moved to stop him from snatching up a few items for his own meal.

Distinctly not in the mood for company, Zevran slipped out of the crowded kitchens without a word, picking listlessly at the food he'd gathered. Half a loaf of soft, fresh bread tucked under his arm, a rough wooden plate in hand piled with a few slices of roast duck and some sort of sweet bun, and a bottle of wine he'd managed to slip into his pack when none of the servants were looking. He needed to get away from the lingering stench of decaying flesh, and a few more twists through the corridors lead him outside into the crisp night air. It wasn't the courtyard they'd passed through on their way into the castle, but it was dark and secluded, and Zevran found himself melting comfortably into the shadows with little effort.

Leaving the snow behind had been no hardship—it was quite nice to sit on the ground without risking frosty discomfort in delicate places. Settling in on the grass, Zevran stretched his shoulders and started eating in earnest, tearing through the meat and bread in short order when his stomach finally awoke from its previous slumber. Swallowing the last mouthful of bread, he pulled the pilfered wine from its hiding place and sliced its wax seal with his skinning knife.

_The knife you hurled through that villager's eye in Haven_, his mind provided. _Though the unfortunate bastard was already dead. __**She'd**__ made sure of that._

Yanking the cork free with too much force, Zevran tried to drown the memories with a slug of fine _vino_. He and she, they worked very well together, which should not have been the case. He preferred to kill alone, whenever possible— adding more hands with more blades tended to make things messier, and messy could so often translate to sloppy. He was many things, but rarely was he sloppy.

But she wasn't another blade. She was the destructive power of nature itself, condensed into one lithe, delicate body. Fire and ice, the crackle of lightning, and something else that seemed to tug at the very life-force of creatures. She could rain terror and pain down upon her enemies from a distance, while he brought death into closer quarters with silence, stealth, and usually much less song and dance. No sparks, few explosions— just skill and a poisoned dagger.

Still, he took some pleasure in putting his boot through the frozen face of an opponent, watching the poor sod shatter magnificently into tiny pieces. He could appreciate the artistry of a brutal hex, and the look of utter panic when a foe felt life drain away from no visible wound. She was capable and efficient, and so innocently beautiful it took his breath away.

Taking another long swig of wine, Zevran pushed his plate aside and slid slowly down to recline on the grass, slipping one arm behind his head. The sky was clear and the stars were bright— he could easily make out the shape of the Lesser Sea Serpent (though not where it should have been), which was something she'd told him weeks before was called some sort of tree in Ferelden. He supposed he could see it, with its branches twisting, but it was strange. Everything about this wet, frigid country was.

He considered contorting himself around until he could press his nose against the rich leather of his boots, but he usually only got into such positions when the rewards were greater than a snoutful of nostalgia. He was growing maudlin, and that was hardly attractive.

He stayed like that for some time, breathing deeply in the damp Ferelden air, but eventually he shook off his stupor and picked up the sticky, sugary bun. Such simple desserts were likely one of the perks of serving a household with a young child, though the risk of being devoured by corpses was quite the balancing feature. Tearing off a small piece with his fingers, Zevran popped the treat into his mouth with some relish— it was dense and cake-like, and glided across his tongue with the warmth of cinnamon and honey.

Honey, like the glint of her hair in the firelight, and the smell of sweetness on her breath.

He hurled the bun into the night, and when there was no satisfying sound to follow, he threw the wine bottle after it for good measure. The shattering of glass eased some of the fire in his gut, but then he realised he could still taste honey.

Hauling himself to his feet with a strained curse, Zevran spat and stalked back inside the castle.

* * *

He wasn't going anywhere in particular— he just wanted to keep walking for a while longer. Avoiding servants and guards whenever possible, Zevran started counting effective ambush spots and vulnerable entrance points to keep his mind occupied. He was beginning to wonder how exactly that foolish Jowan fellow had failed in his assassination, given the abysmal precautionary measures apparent in the castle, when he heard light footsteps approach his position. It would have been simple to secret himself behind a nearby tapestry, but he didn't bother. Playing cat and mouse had lost its appeal— the mouse truly yearned to be the cat, with very specific prey in mind.

When Morrigan strode purposefully into view from around the corner, Zevran was actually thankful. What that said for the sad state of his life, he refused to contemplate.

The witch was clutching a pair of ancient looking books to her chest, and her exotically dangerous eyes narrowed when she caught sight of him. "There you are," she said, quite surprisingly, and Zevran quirked his brow. Morrigan shook her head in obvious annoyance. "I would not care if you dropped off the very face of the world, but our usually taciturn leader is beside herself. She believes you've taken your leave of our merry company, so far as I can divine, and the thought has distressed her to no end. I struggle to imagine why."

It shouldn't trouble him if she were worried— she certainly hadn't spared a thought for his feelings when she decided to rebuff him so unexpectedly. Nodding mutely, he moved to one side as if to continue on past the witch, when she spoke again.

"She is a strong woman." Morrigan's voice was still as waspish and unsympathetic as ever, but there was something else deep beneath that brought him up short. "Despite her insufferably soft heart. She deserves better than either of you, have no doubt." Before he could do more than bristle slightly, she continued. "But given the choice between a foolish risk and an utter fool, she has certainly selected the slightly more interesting option."

It wasn't quite a compliment, but it was more than he'd ever hoped to get from the spiteful harpy. He might have come up with some suitably witty response, given the opportunity, but she was already turning on her heel and marching off in the direction from which he'd come.

Stupid, blighted mages… _all_ of them could go ram their magical staves up their magical—

Resisting the urge to kick, or scream, or otherwise rave, Zevran started off in the direction of the main hall. It was late, but someone between here and there would be able to direct him to his quarry, he was sure.

* * *

An unkind part of him, bitter and cruel, watched her wring her hands as she starred out over the dark courtyard, pacing in front of the wide library window. According to the guard he'd accosted, the Warden had scoured the castle looking for him after Arl Eamon awoke, but after a fruitless search she'd retreated to the large, dusty library. Zevran imagined it might offer a measure of comfort to linger somewhere that reminded her of home.

There were several lamps lit around the spacious room, illuminating shelved filled with leather tomes, scrolls, and various other miscellany. The light was warm, flickering golden across her robes and her skin, but her face was ashen and drawn. It was clear, even from his concealed location near the door, that she had been crying recently, and suddenly her pain was not quite so cathartic.

Clearing his throat distinctly, he stepped into the light. She startled like a deer, jerking around to face him with a gasp, but then he was forced to take a bracing step backwards when she bolted forward and flung herself against his chest. Regaining his balance, Zevran couldn't stop his arms coming up around her slim, shuddering form, even as she clung to his shoulders with almost painful need.

"Oh," she whispered against the base of his throat, and her hair was like silk brushing across his face. "Zev— I thought— Oh—"

His hand fit perfectly in the small of her back, sliding along the smooth fabric of her robes, and her head tucked so comfortably under his chin. There were a great many things he could have said, several of which he had considered in detail during the course of his walk, but then she threw him utterly off-kilter.

"Zev," she said again, in a needy little tone that jolted straight to the weakest parts of him, and he nearly shoved her away. Suddenly, one of her hands was releasing its desperate hold from his shoulder, and gentle, insistent fingers were sliding along his jaw, scorching his skin like lightning. A force of nature— how could he resist such a thing?

She was kissing him, as softly as he'd imagined she would, with lips that were just a touch too dry, but he could certainly fix that. Slowly, carefully, he swept his tongue along her mouth, and the sharp sting of fingers tightening in his hair made him growl. He was lost, so utterly lost when she parted her newly moistened lips and welcomed him inside, gliding her tongue against his, and with more than a sliver of his own desperation, Zevran kicked the library door closed and pressed her back against the dark, smooth wood.

He was drowning in the taste of her, sweet and hot, but the quavering moans vibrating from deep in her throat were something he needed to hear. Pulling back just slightly, Zevran kept his lips brushing hers, his tongue fluttering against the corner of her mouth, and was finally able to drink in the sights and sounds of her passion.

The pink flush of her cheeks had never been more charming, and with the hand not splayed across her back he reached up to touch. Smooth, heated skin without any of the subtle roughness of a human's face— he knew this skin, for it was like his own. He knew the fine, downy hair that would not be coarse even in her most intimate places. He knew that her fragile build was deceptive, with bones that were fine but strong, and muscles that were trimmed close and dense. He knew that if he trailed his mouth up her jaw to nibble gently along the edge of her elegantly tapered ear, _like this_, she would feel such pleasure.

"Oh, _please_ Zev…" Had the leg suddenly hooked around his hips not left him breathless, Zevran would have chuckled at the raw _want_ deepening her voice— _that_ was something else he was quite familiar with, having been kept on a knife's edge of frustration for too long. Instead, he slid his hand down, over the curve of her rear, and gripped her partially bare thigh.

"Please what, _mi amora_?" He nearly choked on the tail end of the unexpected endearment, but she didn't react. She didn't understand, but then again, neither did he. Her hands, which thus far had been limited to stroking the nape of his neck and tugging his hair, now began to scrabble ineffectually at the buckles of his leathers.

"The arl gave us all rooms for the night," she said quickly, breathily, but her fingers did not stop, and Zevran felt one of his spaulders loosen slightly. "We can't— I don't want to do this here, but I want to feel you—"

Still with his mouth pressed against her ear, Zevran slid the hand that had been cradling her jaw down, drawing out a deliciously shuddered whimper when he brushed his knuckles over the swell of one pert breast. "You want to feel me," he murmured between wet, lingering kisses to the side of her throat. "But what will happen the next time your dear Alistair throws a tantrum, hm?"

She grew very still against him, and he bit back a curse. Now _he_ was the one creating complications, and he had no idea why— what in the blighted pit was he _thinking_? He was not one to ask for reassurances or promises; he took what he could get, when he could get it, and that had always been enough. _Seize what pleasures you can Arainai, for they will not come often, and in our line of work they will be necessarily fleeting. _Master Evaristo had been a despicable bastard, but in that instance he had been correct.

The pair of them were frozen together, and he was _not_ hiding his face in her neck— he did not _hide_ from a woman. She wasn't speaking, was barely breathing except for short, shallow little pants, and he didn't dare say anything else for fear of what stupid bleeding thing might come tumbling out of his mouth next. He was_ not_ going to apologise.

"I'm sorry," she said eventually, quietly, and he gritted his teeth when her fingers began to card gently through his hair. "I… I'm not good at this, Zev. In the Tower, well, it's not as if we could have proper relationships, and _jealousy_ just wasn't… I just don't know what I'm meant to say to Alistair. No one has ever…" Trailing off shakily, she tilted her head down and pressed a hesitant, fleeting kiss against his temple. "I am sorry I've fouled this up so badly. You… you deserved better."

He almost laughed, but stopped himself just in time. What _he_ deserved? It was very likely that what he deserved was to be slaughtered in some terribly painful, messy way, doubtlessly after an extended session of dreadful torture. Yet here she was, this undeniably compassionate and deadly woman, worrying about _him_, his _feelings_— Maker's breath, she was _impossible_.

"Stop," he growled, opening eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed and pulling away enough to look her in the face. She was pinched and tense, with tightness visible around her sweet, supple mouth, and she would not meet his gaze. This was not acceptable.

It only took a slight pressure from his thumb to turn her chin, and he managed to startle her into raising her eyes when he squeezed the thigh he was still holding, reminding her of her position tight against his hip. Feelings of discomfort and concern warred briefly in his gut when he saw she was actually _ashamed_— then, when he was about to retreat, concern triumphed.

"Hush, my darling girl." For a brief, dangerous moment he didn't care that his voice sounded much too thick, and not playfully reassuring as he had planned. Somehow, his brow had come to rest against hers, and he felt her unsteady sigh puff against his face. "Let us put aside such unpleasantness. As you can see, I am still whole, and wholly sworn to your service." Attempting to salvage some of his usual glibness, he slid his fingers temptingly along the line of milky skin her robes left exposed, then teasingly up under the hem of her skirt. "In _any_ capacity."

She moved forward, catching his mouth in another deep kiss, but it felt too… raw. Had he even a speck of the good sense the Crows had tried to beat into him, Zevran would have walked away from this before it became even more of a lethal mistake. He'd always been too blasted _weak_, no matter how hard he tried to make it not so, and there had never been a shortage of cruelties waiting to remind him of that. It was going to get him killed, he was entirely certain, but he did not have the strength to save himself from this woman.

With a quick twist of his wrist, the collar of her robe parted, sliding off to reveal the hollow of her throat and the smooth curve of her shoulders. He rested one callused hand on the newly uncovered flesh, feeling her pulse flutter against his fingers, and slowly rubbed the tip of his tongue along her teeth. She moaned into his mouth, loud and deep, and the crackle of lightning began again when her hips bucked sharply. He could feel it, sparking under his skin, through his veins, and it was almost _painful_.

He remembered suddenly that she had mentioned a room, likely with a bed, and that was quite an attractive idea after months on the road, with more to follow… but was it more attractive than the willing woman clinging to him like a vine?

No, but to enjoy _both_ sounded simply delicious.

"_Bonita_," he gasped, knowing that one way or another, he needed to shuck his leathers soon. "Please, mercy— direct me to a bed before I take you right here."

For a moment, it seemed as if she was too far gone, able to wait for nothing else but a rough rutting against the door… admittedly, not a terrible prospect either. Then, however, she was wriggling free from his embrace with incredibly enticing movements, snatching one more kiss before she began to fumble with the door handle. He was pawing her form like a desperate youth, crowding up against her in an attempt to stay as near as possible, but then she was grabbing his hand and dragging him bodily down the empty corridor.

If Alistair so much as peeked out from around a corner, Zevran would break his neck. There would be_ no_ hesitation.

Finally she stopped outside a nondescript doorway, and with a wave of her hand it was pushed open by some invisible force, hard enough to squeal the abused hinges. Such a display of her gift, heedless and powerful, aroused something primal in him— carefully practiced restraint was abandoned, and he descended upon her.

One of them had the presence of mind to close the door, though he hardly cared if half the castle piled in to watch. A rapt audience could add a certain level of pride to one's work, but a lifetime of avoiding witnesses had taught him to derive just as much gratification from performing for an audience of one. A clean kill and a satisfied lover were two of his greatest joys.

Drawing her slender body against himself again, Zevran did not curb his eager explorations any longer. The loose stole of fur hanging from her shoulder was discarded, and he began to suck and nip at the gorgeous dip of her collarbone, allowing soft mewls of pleasure to wash over him. His thigh was pushed tight between hers, with one hand cupping her rear, and he could feel the heat of her through his damned leggings (a concession he'd made during their trek though the mountains, and now fiercely regretted).

He was not quite accustomed to the intricacies of Tevinter mage robes, not yet at least, but he had always been dexterous. A little investigating, made perhaps slightly less nimble when she started licking his ear, and soon he was rewarded by a slackening of cloth, followed shortly thereafter by an exquisite alabaster bosom.

She tasted like dew— fresh and pure, with just a hint of sweetness. A bit more investigating was called for, and he took some time to discover precisely where lips and teeth and tongue should be applied to pull breathy sounds and even a surprising curse or two from her parted lips. Eventually, one of the hands that had been frantically and clumsily working at the straps and buckles of his leathers moved to grasp his chin, yanking his head upwards with more strength than he'd expected.

"Do you think," she murmured, holding his face steady as she nuzzled his cheek. "You might actually help me get this damned armour off you if I set it on fire? Because I could." When she punctuated the threat with a sharp bite to his bottom lip, Zevran groaned harshly.

"And here I thought you already had." One deft manoeuvre and she was tumbled onto the waiting mattress; he followed, crawling over her prone body. Carefully poised just above her, Zevran reached up and unbuckled one shoulder strap of his cuirass. "I certainly feel enflamed."

She huffed out a pleased little laugh, already squirming out of her own clothes with some struggle. He was tossing his gauntlets aside and starting on his side straps when she suddenly pushed him off balance with a well-placed shove, nearly sending him arse over kettle onto the floor. He squawked indignantly, but she merely stood for a moment and shimmied her stubborn clothing down over her hips.

"You made a mess of these," she groused as he clung to the edge of the bed, entranced by the sight of her— glorious in smallclothes and flimsy stockings, with breasts bare and still rosy from his previous attentions. "I thought you were meant to be good with your hands?"

Such insults to his considerable skilfulness would not stand— scrambling out of his cuirass faster than she could likely follow, Zevran darted up and seized her around the waist, hoisting her wriggling body up over one shoulder. Rather brashly, he sunk his teeth into the delightful bottom now resting so temptingly close to his face. She shrieked, but before he could enlighten her as to her poor choice of words, she'd reached around his bare torso and raked her nails across the jumping muscles of his stomach.

"You _minx_," he snarled, feeling her tongue lave along his spine like a fire blazing directly to his cock, and immediately began unlacing his excruciatingly tight leggings as he marched her back over to the bed. This was easily the most fun he'd had in _ages_.

Heaving her back onto the mattress, this time with decidedly less delicacy, Zevran kicked off his boots and shoved his leggings down past his knees. Considering her recent conduct, he had no doubt her current lounging pose was intended to be provocative, and it was certainly successful.

Slithering up between her bent knees, Zevran lowered his head to her stomach and licked a broad stripe from her navel to the underside of her breast. Her eyes were gleaming, her chest heaving, and Zevran had never seen a more alluring vista. Grinning toothily, he stroked one hand over her hip, plucking at the edge of her smallclothes.

"If my hands do not impress you," he whispered slyly, purposefully ignoring the writhing of her hips. "Allow me to try something else."

* * *

_AN: Thank you all for the lovely reviews, and to **Ilargi iluna** & **Shelbystar** for the Spanish recommendations in the second chapter_— _any lingering mistakes or general weirdness are entirely my own doing. There are likely a couple more chapters to this, but once again, they will not likely appear immediately. I'd like a nice, clean resolution with Alistair..._


	4. Chapter 4

When Zevran awoke, it felt like morning, though the lack of windows made it difficult to be certain. He began to stretch his muscles in sections, beginning with his feet, then his calves and so on, with each twinge and ache reminding him quite pleasantly of his recent exertions. Not that he was likely to forget, especially with such a radiant beauty curled so close against his side.

Her slow, even breaths puffed warmly over his chest, and he wondered idly how long he would have to keep her… _distracted_ in this room before Alistair came looking. Certainly, they had important matters pending, a country to save, an archdemon to slay, but perhaps they'd earned a lazy morning in bed together. She had unquestionably earned a rest for all the marvellous, heroic deeds she had accomplished during their adventure thus far, and he certainly deserved some sort of reward for his performance the night previous, and again earlier that morning. Smirking at the memories, Zevran brushed his fingers along the curve of her bare shoulder, then tugged the bedclothes up a bit higher. The view was magnificent, but her creamy skin was raised in gooseflesh, and that would hardly do.

Eventually, rather endearingly, she began to slip into wakefulness. Her first stretch was languid and measured, and accompanied by a quiet squeaking sound that drew a chuckle from him. Her lashes were still flaxen crescents against her cheeks, not even beginning to flutter yet, but the corners of her lips drew slowly upwards.

"Mm, not sure which is better," she mumbled, arching her neck when he began stroking lightly along the edge of her ear. "A real bed, or my new bed warmer."

When her calf slid up along his own leg, Zevran shifted closer, already recalling in vivid detail the many sweet treasures now open to his plundering. Looping his arm around her back, he began to map a new, untested trail to the same bounty.

"This particular bed warmer works exceptionally well in drafty tents and bedrolls as well." Lifting her hand from its resting place against his chest, Zevran slowly kissed the tip of each soft finger, revelling in every small shudder drawn out by the touch of his tongue or the barest nip of his teeth. There was power in this hand, but not any kind he truly understood. No calluses, none of the roughness his life had left on his own flesh, and yet with a simple thought, she could blast his head clean off his shoulders. With the smallest flick of these fingers, here, she could send the blistering heat of lightning burning across his worshiping tongue.

Then again, there were countless ways he could kill her before she even had a chance to call on her powers. The correct application of pressure to her throat, to her spine— her eyes were fluttering open, and Zevran smiled at the growing heat in her gaze. Sinking his teeth just slightly into the flesh of her wrist, he did not resist when her weight shifted and her warm, gloriously naked form crawled atop him.

"Imagine my luck," she whispered, stretching up to lick a stripe along his jaw even as her hips rolled temptingly. It had been an incredibly pleasant discovery to find in this young mage a woman of some experience and few of the inhibitions he was learning ran so rampant among finicky Fereldans. Life in the Circle Tower had created an interesting mix of innocence and open sensuality that he was certainly looking forward to exploring further.

The room still smelled, not unpleasantly, of musk, sweat, and sex, the sheets had undoubtedly seen better days, and she was _eager_ for him again— it was magnificent. What he had assumed would be sleepy and slow was swiftly proving to be something a bit more athletic, especially on the part of his beautiful companion. Keeping her fingers captive, he trailed his free hand up over one of the thighs currently straddling him, keeping her tight against him as he sat up and slid back across the mattress.

She moved with him so fluidly, her breath hot against his neck as he nibbled down her forearm, and he felt her lips twist up into a grin a heartbeat before she canted her hips, surprising him enough to gasp. She was slick, and utterly beautiful as she arched back, keening softly as he helped establish a smooth, easy rhythm. Drawing her arm around his shoulders, Zevran continued his path, kissing wetly along her collarbone, then lower. Her nails digging into his back, sharp and desperate, made him growl.

"Zev—" Suckling and palming her breasts, Zevran snapped his hips up sharply. "Zev!"

They worked as well together in bed as they did on the battlefield, and Zevran was actually a little out of breath by the time they finished. They'd managed to tear a pillow, though he couldn't quite remember when, and there were small downy feathers and wool flock everywhere— vaguely similar to snow in appearance, but far superior in his estimation. His sweet companion seemed to be amusing herself from her sated sprawl across the mattress, picking the bits of fluff from her still-damp skin and blowing them into the air with short bursts of breath. Zevran was watching her through half-lidded eyes, trailing his hand along the narrow feet currently resting nearby.

He might not recall the circumstances of the pillow's destruction, but he remembered precisely how he'd ended up turned around, with his head at the foot of the bed.

Grinning, he pinched the back of her knee. "You are rather full of pleasant surprises, my dear."

With a surprised squeal, she grabbed his foot and scratched her nails over the sole in retaliation. He didn't fight the ticklish sensation that made him wriggle, and was rather delighted when she used her grip as leverage, turning and pulling herself down to meet him. There were feathers in her hair, white and grey mingling with pale blonde, and Zevran ran his fingers through the silky locks as soon as she settled beside him.

"I almost hate to say this," she sighed, laying her head on his shoulder. "Because Maker knows you don't need the encouragement, but you are… very skilled."

"Thank you, sweet lady, but I will admit to being rather inspired." Preening exaggeratedly, Zevran twisted around a bit, pulling the rest of her body snug against him. She laughed, but there was a pinkish tinge to her cheeks and a small curve to her lips that suggested a bashful kind of satisfaction. "You know—"

Both of them jumped when a light but insistent tapping sound reverberated through the room, coming from the door.

"Keelin?" Alistair's voice was more hesitant than his knock, barely audible through the thick oak. Before Zevran could do more than scowl even slightly, there was a delicate but firm hand clamped over his mouth. "Are you awake?"

"Give me a moment!" Her former good humour faded as quickly as her lovely flush, and she squeezed her eyes shut before whispering: "That door isn't locked, is it?"

Waiting until she looked at him again, Zevran shook his head slowly in the negative. No, the door was not locked. And _no_, no matter what she said, and no matter how good she happened to be with her tongue, he was _not_ going to hide in the armoire or under the bed like some dirty little secret.

He had no real moral issue with occasionally being the _other man_ in a relationship, but Maker damn it, he was _the_ man in this one.

Conveying all of that with merely his eyes, because she was still preventing him from saying a word, was challenging. Still, he thought she might have at least gotten the gist of it when she frowned at him, considering.

"Please," she murmured, barely more than a breath. "Just don't make this any worse for him, _please_? You both deserve better than the cock up I've made of this whole thing." Any trouble he might have caused was nipped in the bud when she pressed a tender, lingering kiss to his forehead, and when she finally removed her hand from his jaw he kept his voice in check.

"I shall behave." Relaxing against the mattress in surrender, he still made the point of quirking his brow. "But I do expect ample reward. He's been a jackass, you realise."

She smiled weakly and kissed him again, this time very lightly on the lips. "A bit of one, yes. Thank you, Zev."

"Hmph." Stretching languorously, Zevran stayed quiet and peaceful as she slid off the bed, snatching up the discarded lacy dressing gown that had been so thoughtfully provided along with a pair of rather lovely dresses of Orlesian style, and a plain nightgown. The dressing gown had been thrown carelessly over the open door of the armoire the night before, but the garment's flimsy belt was missing, tangled somewhere in the mess they'd made of the bed. With a small, frustrated sound, she tossed it aside and yanked the nightgown over her head— Zevran was rather pleased to see that the thin white linen draped and shifted over her svelte curves almost scandalously. Given the handful, lapful and bed-full of pleasure he'd enjoyed so recently and so completely, he felt more than willing to provide Alistair with at least an eyeful.

He was perhaps somewhat distracted, but he still caught the leather leggings she pitched at him before they smacked him in the face. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he pulled the leggings on with a simple raise of his hips, still sprawled across the shambolic mattress. She sighed, but left him be.

No footboard on the bed meant that Zevran could clearly see Alistair's expression when she cracked the door open, revealing the disorder of the room and setting all sorts of ideas into the former templar's head about what manner of debauchery had led to such a mess. Zevran did his very best to look mildly disinterested in the intrusion, rather than victorious.

"What—" Alistair floundered, gaping. Zevran did not usually enjoy inflicting pain on others, except professionally. Still, he did not squash his rather nasty feelings of triumph, not with such a sore loser for an opponent. Alistair's brows were apparently trying to furrow deeply enough that they might consume his face, which may have been a defence against the fire no doubt about to start on his cheeks. "Keelin?"

"Alistair," she said, her voice as quiet and elusive as the gentlest winds of the Rialto. "Is something— I mean, what is it? Is something wrong with the arl?"

Zevran carefully noted the man's tight jaw and rigid posture, but when Alistair spoke, his voice was dull and flat. "I came to check on you," he intoned, his gaze flickering ever so briefly over the bare-chested elf lounging silently nearby, and for a heartbeat there was anger crackling hot through the air. "You were so upset last night."

She was twisting her fingers together fretfully, ruining the otherwise stoic bearing she was obviously working so hard to maintain, but any interference on his part would simply make an awkward situation worse. Finally, after a tense silence, she reached out and touched Alistair's gauntleted forearm. If the man's flinch bothered her, she was careful not to show it.

"Thank you for being my friend, my _dearest_ friend," she murmured, with an earnest kindness that made Zevran look away. This wasn't his business. "You're my family, truly, and I care for you a great deal—"

"But not in the same way I care for you." It was actually rather saddening, hearing such defeat in the man's voice. "You explained that to me already. I suppose, well, I thought— No. No, never mind it. I… apologise for the intrusion."

She didn't call him back, didn't prolong the discomfort, and Zevran didn't raise his gaze from the mattress until the sound of hasty footsteps moved farther down the corridor. When he finally lifted his eyes, he saw she was still standing as she had been, facing the empty doorway.

Rather unsure of what kind of reception he might expect were he to offer some measure of comfort, Zevran waited. Eventually, she inhaled a slow, deep breath and closed the door, resting her forehead against it.

"Was that the right thing?" He slid across the mattress and sat up on the edge, but stayed quiet. Either she would have more to say, or his silence would make her turn. "I hate that I hurt him… but I don't regret my choice." Finally, she did move to face him, but her expression was unpleasantly dark. "He thought you'd left. So did I."

"I thought some time to myself might do me some good," he heard himself say, unsure of what force was possessing him to continue down this path. He could apologise, or deflect with charming humour, but no. "I was courteous enough to allow you your privacy yesterday— you remember, of course? The forty miles we trudged in bitter silence?"

Speaking of bitter silence, the room was now full of it. Somehow, that bloody sop of an almost-templar had poisoned the moment _again_, and Zevran was truly getting sick of it.

No. _ No_. Flopping back on the bed with a great, theatrical sigh, he utterly refused to deal with this _horseshit_.

"I am sorry," he said quietly and with complete seriousness. "Truly. I am not accustomed to affecting others with my comings and goings."

Further silence, but it did not seem quite so heavy as it had a moment before. When the mattress sunk beside him, Zevran did not look over, but did cant his arm outward in invitation. When she tucked herself against his side, he was shocked at the strength of his own relief.

"No off-colour remark about coming." Her breath was warm, a whisper against his ear. "Who are you, and what have you done with Zevran?"

That startled a laugh out of him, just before her fingers skating over his ribs deepened the sound into an appreciative groan.

"When I find out," he replied, only half-joking. "I will let you know."

* * *

"What do you mean, I am to _stay behind? _You expect me to allow you to traipse about that foul pit—" He grabbed her arm as she turned away, and his palm tingled at the contact. She would not look at him, even though he could feel the frustrated power crackling around her, and her so obviously forced calm made his anger flare hot.

"Zevran," she said quietly, patiently. It infuriated him. "The Deep Roads are blighted. I'm not risking your health, or the health of anyone else who's not immune or tainted already. Do you _want_ to catch darkspawn plague?"

He wasn't completely sure which of them was being more pigheaded about this, but that did not change the reality of the situation. Careful not to allow his frustration to rule his movement, he caught hold of her other arm and gently pulled her around to face him fully. "I've killed enough of the things— perhaps I've developed a resistance." He began to stroke his hands from her shoulders to her elbows, drawing her closer as he allowed a fraction of his real apprehension to colour his tone. "Regardless, we've no real idea what's lurking down there, but the safe bet is something terrible. Protecting your back from all manner of gruesome monster has become a hobby of mine."

She braced one hand against his chest, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were as hard as dragonbone, but he did not miss the flickering worry deep within. "No. I refuse to risk it, and we're finished discussing this."

He wanted to shake her, very nearly did, but settled for curling his lip nastily. "And if I ignore your ridiculous _order_, and come anyway?"

"I'm not sure I could forgive that." He stepped back, hands flying away from her as if he'd been burned. She was serious, deadly serious, and he needed desperately to be anywhere else.

Stalking over to the other side of the small guest quarters Harrowmont had given them use of, Zevran leaned one arm against the smooth stone of the walls. Despite the spacious, vaulted ceiling, he keenly felt the crushing weight of the mountain over his head. "Do you truly fathom what you are asking of me? Would _you_ appreciate being made to stay behind if I were leaving on some dangerous mission into dark, unknown horrors? To sit and wait like some poor soldier's bride during a campaign? I hardly think I'd have finished speaking before you'd have my boots on fire."

Her footsteps across the floor sounded thunderous, and for a moment he wondered what his very last thought would be if the whole blighted city fell in atop them.

"Please, Zev." Her fingers on his elbow were a sharp, bitter sensation, like a bee sting. "I'll be sick with worry the entire time that you'll fall ill, turn into a ghoul, and I'll have to _kill_ you. If you care at all for my feelings, don't put me in that position, please_._"

She was right— he _knew_ she was right— but so was he. Putting himself at such risk would be foolishness, but he could not help thinking that leaving her to her own devices with only Alistair, the surly, unpredictable golem, and some filthy drunken dwarf they'd just met to watch her back was not the epitome of wisdom either.

The air in this blasted dwarven warren was dry and musty; it made his voice rasp. "I suppose we are both playing unfairly, hm?"

He could have slipped free so easily, been out the door before she had the chance to blink, but he allowed slim, soft arms to wrap around his waist from behind. She craned up, hooking her chin over his shoulder, and her breath was like a wisp of warm silk against his throat.

"You heard Harrowmont," she murmured, hugging him tightly. "We only have a few days. I will be back soon, and I swear I'll be careful."

He turned his head, keeping his expression hidden from her. It felt, for whatever reason, like he'd left his underbelly exposed. "I am furious with you, you realise."

"I know." She brushed a kiss under his ear, nuzzling softly. "Thank you."

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, to turn into her embrace and keep his composure, but he managed. They were meant to be resting, with Harrowmont already chomping at the bit for them to be underway as soon as possible, but he needed to ground himself in the feel, the smell, and the _taste_ of her before she left him waiting.

She did not protest when his unusually tentative touch grew bolder, drawing her form tight against his own. It was a sweet, willing woman whose mouth opened under his own, and who stepped lightly back towards the bed at his urging. She was graceful, nimble, but she would not see the dangers lurking in the darkness until they were upon her. He had no illusions about her stealth, but he did trust her powers. In a fair fight, or even a not so fair one, she was a force unto herself.

And truly, if she happened to blow the others to tiny, smouldering bits with an ill-timed fireball in the close quarters of the dwarven tunnels, his heart would not be broken. So long as _she_ emerged largely unharmed, he would be ecstatic.

He did not speak, but she certainly did— murmuring encouragement against his skin as he peeled them both free of their clothing; whimpering his name plaintively as he slowly explored her, taking his time with every precious inch; crying out with prayers and broken words of affection when he finally slipped between her legs, holding her sweat-slick back against his chest as they knelt together on the mattress.

He held her firmly, allowing only slow, measured movements, and he would not quicken his pace even as she began to beg and writhe, scratching at the straining muscles of his thighs. She was tightening around him rhythmically and rolling her hips, trying to break his resolve, but he was determined to drive all other thoughts from her mind for as long as possible.

Some time later, possibly days for all he knew, he was panting against her ear, and sweat borne of agonizing restraint was stinging his eyes. A simple move had allowed him to brace an arm against the bed's glassy-smooth headboard, while his other hand still rested flat between her breasts, holding her close. Her heart was hammering fast, but she had long ago stopped struggling against the tender pace.

She was mewling constantly, wordlessly, and arching so sweetly against every rock of his hips, and nothing—

"Please," she gasped, interrupting his jumbled thoughts even as she reached back and clenched her fingers tight in his hair. The bite of pain, cutting through the ache thrumming through his entire body, shocked his hips into snapping hard, stuttering out a handful of sharp, deep thrusts. The sudden movement was enough, and he could not help but follow where she led— a wild tumbling into excruciating bliss.

They slept for a short while, a few hours at most, and in his dreams they were back in that colossal arena, surrounded by a sea of faceless dwarves whose shouts buffeted through his ears like a raging storm. He couldn't say who they were fighting, but the dust at their feet was already dark and muddy with a river of blood.

When they woke, he almost refused to let her go— but he was not some clinging infant, and she had made up her mind. They began to dress in silence, but Zevran could still feel the dangerous chasm that cracked between them. He would stay in the dwarven city, as he was bid, but he would not give up all the ground in this battle.

"Here." He held out the small, wicked looking dagger, pommel first. As he expected, she simply looked at him in confusion, her half-fastened robes still exposing swathes of creamy skin. He'd marked her with teeth and lips, reddened spots he knew would darken over the next few days and would be visible just at the edges of her alluring clothing— let Alistair look, if he fancied. "Humour me, my darling girl."

She made no move to take the blade, but she did step closer to where he stood, brushing her fingers along his bare, outstretched arm. "I'd probably be deadlier with a really big rock, you know."

"You could barely lift a_ really big rock_," he countered, pressing the dagger into her palm and wrapping her fingers around the pommel. "But this is quite a simple concept. Whatever you want to kill goes here—" Pushing the centre of his palm against the blade's tip just hard enough to draw a drop or two of blood made her hiss at him, but he continued speaking. "I am not recommending you depend upon it, but it can't hurt to keep it close, yes?"

She grabbed his hand, cradling it as she examined the insignificant damage. "_This_ can't hurt?"

"I am assuming you are wiser than me,_ querida_." The icy tingle of magic shivered through his hand, gently knitting flesh together, and he smiled. "You're getting better at that."

For a brief moment, he thought she might clean the small trail of blood off with her tongue; instead, he was left with a dark red streak across his naked chest.

"Better at healing nicks and scrapes, but not much else," she murmured, and when it became clear she was not about to release his hand, Zevran moved closer (being careful to avoid the dagger still clutched between them). "Try not to cause a cultural incident while I'm gone, if you please. No assassinating Bhelen, or Harrowmont." She paused, glancing up at him under her fair lashes with an utterly devious gleam in her eyes. "Unless you _really_ think you can get away with it."

Assassins did not usually have the benefit of choosing the methods of their own deaths, but Zevran held out hope regardless— death by orgasm, or mixed up in one of this sweet girl's glorious schemes were top of his list. "Such temptation," he all but purred, and several possible plans of attack began clicking together in his mind.

Shaking her head with a small, amused smile, she leaned in and pressed a light kiss just above his heart. "As loath as I am to chase ghosts through the Deep Roads, we can't risk it. Not that I doubt your skills."

The time was fast approaching when she would pull away from him, impatient to leave on her little excursion; he fought to keep his demeanour light-hearted, and forced a smirk. "And nor should you— I've never left a target alive, until you."

She did take the dagger without further argument, slipped carefully into the narrow sheath he fitted to her belt. The blade was not especially large, but it did make the little knife she kept tucked in her herb bag look pathetic. Somehow, even knowing she would not use it— and hoping fervently that she would not be forced to— Zevran felt some measure of comfort at seeing it there.

He indulged himself only once more, and only a kiss, catching her up in the corridor just outside their room before they could get more than a few steps. Where their lovemaking had been slow and teasing, now his mouth moved harshly against hers as he pressed her body firmly between himself and the cold stone of a nearby wall. He'd almost expected her to resist the kiss, here in the middle of some dwarven noble's estate, but instead she wrapped her arms so tight around the back of his neck that he nearly lost his breath. He could taste copper, but her fingers were tugging at the sensitive hair at his nape and her soft moans were dancing along his tongue, so he hardly cared.

What was meant to be a few days wandering about the Deep Roads dragged to a week, then nearly two, and Zevran was quickly allowing his tension to get the better of him. One evening over the meaty, tasteless supper provided by Harrowmont, he heard Sten liken him to some kind of large jungle cat, but even the qunari kept out of his way. He was forever pacing, hands never far from his daggers, and it scarcely helped that as his own concern grew, so did the political tension sizzling through the city. If matters were not resolved quickly, a bold move would soon be made— he could smell it.

Then word came, and he was dashing so swiftly through wide, dusty corridors and streets that his form was barely more than a blur to bystanders. The legs of dwarven messengers were much shorter than those of determined elves, however, and she was already striding purposefully through the Diamond Quarter when he found her.

The other three could have been on fire, or missing their heads; all he knew at that moment was that she appeared whole, if somewhat scathed. The poultice smeared dark across her cheek and up the side of her neck gave him some pause, but the uninjured side of her mouth still lifted when she caught sight of him.

"Are we too late?" she asked, and he barely comprehended the question, but the sooner this foolish backbiting was cleared up, the sooner he could assess her condition more thoroughly. He shook his head, both to answer and as an attempt to clear his thoughts.

"Perhaps not, but this Assembly of theirs is ready to burst." There did not appear to be any Paragon Branka coming up on her heels, and Zevran doubted even a dwarven woman could fit easily into a belt pouch. "I trust you have something to end this stalemate?"

She was exhausted— he could see that clearly— teetering on the dangerous edge of being completely overcome. Still, it was with some weakened humour that she peered at him sceptically. "Was there any doubt?"

"Not a moment," he replied easily, slipping an arm around her waist as they continued the rush to the Assembly Chamber. He could feel her trembling, but it was such a faint tremor that he doubted anyone else would notice.

There was a darkness clinging to her; a remnant of those blighted tunnels that refused to let go.

* * *

_AN: There will be at least one, but likely two more chapters to this. The Brecilian Forest and __Taliesin's confrontation are the plan for the next bits, but we shall see._

_I'm incredibly glad that my take on Zevran has rung true fo__r many of you, and I really appreciate the reviews! So, thank you all very kindly, and I hope you continue to enjoy this tale. _


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hangover— he would definitely remember _this_ one until the end of his days.

"Ugh—" he groaned, fighting for the strength to even open his gritty eyes, but it wasn't brandy or ale that soured his mouth. Metallic, familiar, _blood_.

"Zevran?" It was a testament to the power of whatever stupor held him that he hadn't noticed the soft, strangely cold hands gripping his own. "Andraste's grace, Zev, please open your eyes."

Who was he to refuse the whims of his deadly sex goddess? It was a question he would have voiced, had his throat not felt full of shattered glass. Instead, he groaned wordlessly again and dragged his eyelids open.

The bits of sky that filtered through the treetops were bright and clear with afternoon sunlight, but the air stunk of decay and dust. He was apparently lying on his back on the forest floor, and a slight loll of his head brought Keelin into focus where she knelt beside his shoulder. Incredibly, she was more ghostly pale than he'd ever seen her.

"Hello," she gasped, her voice breaking, and then she was swooping down and peppering his face with light, frantic kisses.

"I got a kiss as well, just for the record," Alistair grumbled from somewhere nearby, his voice quite hoarse. "And had I known lazing about would have gotten me more, I might have tried it."

"Oh hush—" That was dear Leliana, sounding shaken and vaguely disapproving, and when his enthusiastic greeting settled down and he was able to pull himself up into a sitting position, he could not help but notice the dark smudges under the bard's eyes. Both Leliana and Alistair looked about as well as he felt himself. "Are you all right, Zevran?"

"Been better," he rasped, reaching up to cup his hand over the fingers still lingering on his cheek. There were piles of bones and crumbling corpses littering the moss around them, and that was unexpected— he remembered a welcoming little campsite, and then nothing but darkness. "What happened?"

"The camp was a trap." With pupils wide and glittering, it was obvious his lover had a shock of lyrium buzzing through her. She was always so very cautious with the addictive potions, and her current high along with his aching body suggested quite a serious state of affairs. Still, she had managed to bring her voice back under control. "A powerful shade, feeding on travellers. I destroyed it."

"No doubt." He smiled, very purposefully catching her nervously darting gaze before winking. Such limited use over the years meant she had little resistance built up, and depending on how much lyrium she had taken, it could be hours before her jittery mania faded back to normal.

It would be prudent to return to the Dalish for a bit of recuperation, and he was more than willing to play-up the extent of his injuries if it would convince her to agree. As it was, however, no such drama was necessary.

"We're retreating for now," she said resolutely, as if she expected argument. "I'm not going to risk venturing further until we're all rested. Leliana, Alistair, will you please check around for valuables? I have no wish to return to this place."

"Of course, my friend." Leliana had Alistair by the elbow in an instant, tugging the man bodily away in the direction of some mouldy old packs and other potential scavenging.

There was what appeared to be a grey, rotted ribcage quite nearby, and Zevran did not feel a particular need to remain sitting beside it. Grunting as the muscles around his own ribs protested the move, he dragged himself to his feet with only a small amount of help, which was not strictly necessary but did get him an armful of beautiful mage.

"We're taking Wynne with us this time," she murmured, laying her head on his shoulder for just a moment. He took a deep breath, looping his arms around her waist. "I know the hunters recommended we keep our group small, and that dealing with the wildlife without Leliana's bow might make things more difficult, but poultices can only do so much." She sighed, and her breath ghosted warm across his throat. "I wish I wasn't so _useless_ with the Creation school."

He knew a little about the so-called schools of magic, and he was well acquainted enough with this woman to recognise the beginnings of a spiral into self-reproach. "We all have our strengths," he said firmly, maintaining the embrace while ignoring the sideways glare he was receiving as Alistair rummaged through what was left of the campsite's previous unfortunate visitors. "I am not ashamed to admit that despite my inarguably awesome skills, I'd likely cut my own leg off with Oghren's greataxe. You are fury itself, my beautiful lover, and I would not wish it any other way."

* * *

It wasn't at all unreasonable, in his opinion, to be wary of crazy old men who lived in tree stumps. Yet, there his petite lover stood, conversing with the filthy lunatic as if he didn't stink of shit and randomly lash out at invisible foes. Zevran was staying very carefully positioned, allowing himself a clear shot with his dagger should the hermit's ranting become violent, and he was aware of Alistair's own tense posture nearby as well.

When Wynne warned them that the hermit was a mage, Zevran bit back a largely undeserved, snappish comment. They had all seen the man appear in a flash of lightning and smoke, hadn't they? On top of that, Zevran was the only one of their current company who couldn't actually _sense_ magic, for Andraste's sake.

The hermit was nattering about questions and answers again, his grubby hands fluttering, but Zevran was barely listening. They had the blasted acorn already, but Keelin seemed almost saddened by the man's obvious madness. Too softhearted by half— he'd said it before.

"—in love now. I think." There was something moving on the other side of the clearing that was diverting his attention, and he only caught the very end of her whispered answer to the hermit's latest inane inquiry. Love? He had missed something, obviously, but surely she hadn't—

Alistair was scowling darkly, eyes flashing hotly under his helm, and Zevran suddenly felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a very steep precipice. Perhaps, by Andraste's flaming sword, perhaps she _had_ said— to this _madman_—

He cared for her, certainly, and she was an absolute wonder of a woman, but _love_?

No. He would not distract himself with such ridiculous notions here, in this deadly forest, when he wasn't even sure what she'd said. He was not about to let paranoia and conjecture distract him.

He knew her intimately; she was not a master of subterfuge by any stretch of the imagination. Surely, if she were _in_ _love _with him, he would have noticed some hint before now. She valued his company, enjoyed the pleasures he could give her, and she did care for him as he did her… that was all. That was all a man such as he could ever hope for, or ever allow. She knew that.

He would not think on this again.

* * *

He tried to understand her hushed, brightly excited explanations, but he was convinced he wasn't quite grasping the intricacies as well as she might hope. The concept of controlling the elements of nature with his mind was staggering enough to contemplate seriously, yet the delicate, divine woman in his arms routinely did so as naturally as he could wield a dagger. Still, he listened raptly as they lay together in their shared tent, brushing his fingers through her hair as she chattered animatedly from her drape across his chest. The thick, lush smell of the forest clung to her skin, already washed clean of the stink of blood and rot, and the moss upon which they'd set up camp made the bedroll especially comfortable. It was rather lovely, despite the werewolves, demonic spirits, and undead.

"It's strange," she continued, and he reined in his wandering mind. "This new _energy_, I suppose. It feels like warm water is moving through my veins and in my muscles, and I feel more… aware of my body. But I also know that something has changed and I'm not sure _how _exactly. I don't even know how to describe it."

"Warm, and aware of your body? I do like the sound of that," he purred, sliding his hand down to caress the side of her neck. The move earned him a giggle, and a sweet, fleeting kiss.

"I feel _vibrant_," she whispered against his mouth, then favoured him with a small, brilliant kind of smile. It dimpled her cheek, and made his heart stutter foolishly.

He refrained from explaining how impossible such a thing seemed to him— if she became any more vibrant, townsfolk might begin building shrines when they passed through, and wouldn't the Chantry _love_ that. Instead, he reached up and pressed one finger against the tip of her nose.

"You barely know what end of a sword to hold, so let us not get ahead of ourselves, hm?" And then, because she was an irrepressible minx in the best possible way, her eyes widened with delight.

"You can teach me—" Her thigh pressed purposefully between his own, shifting with definite intent. "I shall be an obedient student, I swear."

It was a very dangerous thing that she already knew precisely how to set his blood aflame with the warmth of her skin and the honey of her tone. How fortunate that danger and he had become such close comrades over the years.

"Well." The tent was small, not precisely built for two people, but Zevran managed to roll her quite neatly onto her back without crashing into one of the looming canvas walls. She squealed, gripping his shoulders as he settled enough of his weight over her slight frame to pin her in place. He could see her features clearly in the shadows, with the soft plain of her forehead and the line of her nose illuminated by the dim firelight that filtered through the tent walls. Her eyes glittered, and he was forced to swallow back a surprisingly hoarse feeling in his throat before continuing. "How wickedly tempting you are, my darling girl."

Her hand was cool against his face, soothing a burn of which he'd only been half-aware, and he pressed into the touch without shame.

"So will you teach me?" Had he ever experienced such sweet, almost childlike enthusiasm? He honestly could not recall a time. "Soon?"

"All right," he conceded with a chuckle, pressing his lips against her wrist as she stroked the backs of her fingers along his cheekbone. "First thing tomorrow morning— early, before the others shake off their stupors. We will start very slowly."

It seemed wise to begin with small things, for safety and to reduce the chance of embarrassment if it all fouled up somehow. So it was that they crawled out of the tent, so soon after dawn that the sun had not yet burnt away the mist from where it hung low and cold through the trees. The grass was wet, leaving shining dew on her bare feet, and he could hear the awe clear in her voice when she leaned close and confessed that she felt as if the forest was tugging at something deep in her chest. She blushed faintly pink when she said it, but he did not tease her.

There had been both celebrating and mourning late into the night, and he knew at least a few members of their company would not be eager to rise just yet. The Dalish were already milling about their landships, however, and with a gentle hand on her lower back he lead her closer to the edge of the collective camp. An audience was not something she needed to concern herself with when they were swinging swords about.

She was barely dressed, wearing only the first layer of her robes flung on haphazardly, but he wasn't about to complain. The view was lovely, without stockings or ornamentation covering her smooth, luminous skin— just a short, embroidered shift the colour of saffron to keep her modesty intact. She kept glancing back at him, eyeing the extra longsword he was carrying over one shoulder as she chewed her bottom lip. A few days before she would have scarcely been able to lift it, and now she wanted to _spar_, of all things.

There was an open space a bit removed from the main camp, the ground thick with dark green moss but mostly free of roots and other obstacles, and that is where he led them. Zevran had taken the time to dress a bit more sensibly, though he had eschewed buckling himself in to his full leathers— a pair of leggings, boots, and a tunic seemed good enough for this exercise, because damned if he was traipsing about the forest floor barefoot unless given ample cause.

"You are going to slip," he warned her again, waiting until she turned to face him before waggling her own boots in her direction. She had stubbornly refused them in the tent, but he'd brought them along nonetheless. "And impale yourself. Even the Dalish wear boots, my sweet."

"Oh, Maker's _breath_." She sighed exasperatedly, as if _he_ were the one being daft, and held out her hand. "Fine, I'll wear them."

"My obedient student," he murmured, loud enough that he was certain she'd hear, and she actually stuck her tongue out at him before snatching the boots and bending to tug them on her damp feet. If she weren't nearly vibrating with anticipation to get started, he would have tickled her mercilessly for that little show of maturity.

"There," she said, pointing at her newly shod feet. "Can I have my sword now, please?"

He thought of denying the request and explaining that the training was going to be a measured, methodical process, but perhaps a bit of fumbling around on her own would cure her of this impatience. With an overly indulgent eye-roll, Zevran silently passed the spare steel blade over, hilt first.

Despite her keenness, she took it with the kind of caution that such a weapon deserved, which was promising. Then she stepped back and swung it experimentally— he was unsure what was more alluring: the look of wonder on her face, or the ease with which the fine muscles of her arm moved. It was as if she'd held a sword her entire life.

"I remember this," she whispered, staring at her own arm as if it were some fantastic creature. "It's not _me_, but they're my memories now. I think I can— yes, wait—"

With a flick of her wrist, the blade spun skilfully, flowing smoothly into a relatively simple series of attacks. There was definite heat curling in his belly now, watching this elven goddess slice deftly through the air with practiced ease, and with an anticipatory smirk he unsheathed his own sword.

"Come, then," he said, catching her attention. "Slow and easy at first."

He darted forward at about a quarter of his usual speed, bringing his blade up in a basic slicing attack. She blocked him automatically, her own sword clanging hard, and he could feel the unexpected force of the hit up into his shoulder.

He tutted, backing off a step or two. "Easy, I said. You obviously have more strength than you're accustomed to, and I don't wish you to hurt yourself." He paused, tilting his head for effect. "Or _me_, truthfully. Though I could think of far less attractive things to see just before being horribly maimed."

She frowned, and her stance wavered as she lowered her sword. "That is not funny."

"_That_ is very sharp." He motioned to the blade, resisting the urge to comfort her. "So you must be aware. Now come at me."

To her credit, she did not hesitate for more than a heartbeat. Soon enough the air was filled with the din of blades clashing, and Zevran could see precisely when the sweat begin to bead on her now-rosy skin. When he gradually began to increase his speed, she matched his every thrust and parry with her own. She was no sword master, not even with her new memories guiding her hand, but her moves were deliberate and powerful enough to provide something of a challenge. Pitted against a few drooling, mindless darkspawn, he had little worry she would be able to hold her own, but he could also pinpoint the potential for improvement. If this were truly something she wished to learn, along with her potent magic, she could become such a divine terror.

Eventually, as the rising sun was brightening the glen and the noises of the camp were becoming livelier, he realised he was barely holding back at all. Her hair was coming loose from its tie, her chest was heaving deliciously, and he was so devastatingly aroused by the whole thing— he only realised how distracted he'd become when the sweep he was attempting to block went high, and he did not move quickly enough to compensate. Her new strength was incredible, the blow fierce, and stars burst white in his vision when the awkward impact twisted his wrist.

He cursed, his sword dropping to the ground with a thud as his grip went slack, and she was at his side in an instant. The pain was lancing, what felt like at least one badly broken bone, and he couldn't help hissing when she reached out as if to touch. In a real battle he would have pressed on, but without the threat of death boiling in his blood he could hardly bring himself to twitch his fingers.

"Oh Maker, _Zev_—" Gone was the exquisite warrior, and in her place a devastated young mage. "I didn't— your wrist— we need Wynne." He clenched his teeth, cradling his hand very gently against his chest.

"That would be good," he agreed, his voice gruff, and allowed her to loop one slender arm around his back. She was shaking against him, squeezing his ribs, but the throbbing in his wrist and numbness crawling outwards into his hand did not allow him to dwell too long on her feelings. Every step was jarring, but then they were outside Wynne's tent, and thankfully the woman was already awake and drinking her tea.

"What happened?" she asked sharply when they approached, setting her heavy wooden teacup aside and pulling herself to her feet.

Keelin began to babble, but Zevran hushed her with a loud growl that made even Wynne flinch. "I seem to have broken my wrist," he explained calmly, then took a deep breath through his nose. Despite the constant battles that had dogged them for months, it had been quite some time since he'd broken a bone, especially this painfully. It wasn't precisely a feeling that one got used to. He'd been trained to function even through the depths of agony, and he could have dealt with the pain much more stoically, but such a thing required coldness he had little interest in revisiting unless there was no other option.

Wynne reached out, and he fought the urge to shy away. "Let me see," she ordered, and he complied without hesitation. Wynne's fingers were gentle but firm as they prodded the swollen lump of his injury, and Keelin was whispering desperate apologies into his shoulder. He tried to focus on her words rather than the torturous manipulations.

"Calm yourself, _amora,_" he managed to murmur, pressing a kiss against her forehead. "I am no healer, but I assume I'll live."

"More than likely," Wynne added absently, then caught his gaze with a very serious expression. "This will not feel pleasant, Zevran, but it's not a simple break. I apologise."

He forced a strained grin, even as he was hugged tighter. "It doesn't feel especially pleasant _now_, my dear Wynne. Please, do what you must." He had barely finished speaking when a frigidly cold wave of magic flooded his hand, and the bite of it made his muscles clench excruciatingly. Then the bones began to grind together and he did not attempt to hold back his gasp.

It could have been hours later, even days, but when the pain faded it was like paradise.

"There," Wynne said quietly, still holding his hand between both of hers, and her eyes were soft with care. It was strange, but not unwelcome. "Just rest it for the day, and everything should be fine."

There was gushing thanks from the woman clinging to his side, which Wynne waved off kindly, and then Zevran found himself being hustled back off to their tent with a sort of inescapable fretting. He spared a thought for the pair of swords lying abandoned in the dewy moss, but the agitation of his lover seemed to present a much more pressing matter.

"I am quite whole again," he assured her, flexing his fingers experimentally. There was a twinge, but nothing unbearable. His lovely mage had quite obviously lost her previous magically granted fortitude— the arms tugging at him were not those of a warrior, at least not in the traditional sense. Still, he did not resist the manhandling until they were easily within tumbling distance of the tent.

At that point, he very purposefully slid his left hand around her back to skim over her scantily clad bottom, while lifting his right hand up near their faces and twisting it around for her benefit. "Though I would hardly argue if you wished to make sure. I suggest a thorough investigation."

With the briefest of glances around the camp, she stretched up to catch his mouth in an altogether unexpected, utterly tender kiss.

This time _she_ was the one hustled around, and Zevran kept his lips brushing gently against hers as he guided her back into their tent, while nimbly avoiding the support pole that bisected the entrance. Falling romantically into bed together was made slightly more complex when a single clumsy move could bring a couple's shelter collapsing down around their ears.

He could remember with perfect clarity the spectacular figure she'd made against the eerie background of the forest, and the thrill of that image was not tarnished by the lingering ache up his arm and the clamminess sticking to his skin. His lust had been dampened just slightly, however, and thus he did not push for more than the relatively innocent embrace he found himself wrapped up in.

"I am so sorry," she said again, curling against his chest as they settled on the bedroll. The willowy lengths of her fingers encircled his still-tingling wrist, and there was a quaver in her voice that he was quite unused to hearing. Certainly, she was no steely-eyed mercenary, but throughout the very worst of situations she had consistently proven herself to be a woman of unrivalled fortitude. He could hear the threat of tears in her tone, and that was one of the very last things he wanted.

"Hush, my darling." Resting his chin on her damp hairline, Zevran forced the tension to bleed out of his muscles, knowing she would feel his relaxation. "There will be no blame tossed about like so much rubbish— _and_ we will try your training again." She did not argue or squawk; there were a great number of reasons why this new power would be beneficial, and she was nothing if not realistic when it came to defeating darkspawn. Instead, there was quiet and a few long moments of steady breathing until finally she kissed his knuckles and brought his arm closer to nestle between her breasts.

The beat of her heart was actually quite soothing, as was the mild vibration of her voice. "It's silly," she murmured. "How afraid I was. Losing my head over a broken wrist, for the love of Andraste."

Smiling against her brow, he splayed his hand wide across her collarbone. "Well, it did _hurt_. You, my gorgeous little sorceress, have perhaps half-again my own strength now, it would seem. How astonishingly attractive that is."

"Not now, I don't." When she tilted her head back enough to look at him, he saw that her eyes were shining with a hint of dampness. "Right now I'm weak as a kitten, and I want to be gone from this damned forest. I think it's out to get you."

He snorted, rubbing his thumb gently along the swell of her breast. "Assuming the forest can be _out to get_ anyone? One would think its ire would focus on our human companions. The barbarous shemlens, and all that." He nearly reminded her of the bruised pride and black-eye Alistair had suffered in that last altercation with an angry sylvan on their way back to the Dalish camp with Zathrian's body in tow, but refrained. The thickheaded man intruded on their intimacy enough without Zevran's assistance.

She didn't rise to his playful rebuff of her concern, but she did pull away from his embrace— fear gripped him for an instant, but she was not fleeing in a fury. Instead, she reached over to dig through her small pack, rustling herbs and parchment, and making glass clink together. Curious but cautious, he resisted the urge to peek around her back.

Soon enough, she cried out with a triumphant sound and turned, a pair of light leather gloves clutched in her hand. Her face was what drew his gaze, however, where an expression of nervous anticipation and no small amount of joy brightened her features.

"Here," she said softly, almost hesitantly, and held the gloves out towards him. "These… these are for you."

There were still shadows that clung painfully in his memories, and though he took the scraps of leather automatically, he could not stop the wariness from colouring his tone. Her manner did not seem to imply that this was a casual gift. "Gloves? You're giving me gloves? Why?"

If anything, the crinkling at the corners of her eyes and the sad smile that graced her lips made his suspicions flare hotter. Then she spoke, quietly and with unreserved affection. "Just look at them, Zev. They're Dalish, like the gloves you told me about. The ones that belonged to your mother."

"I—" Supple buckskin, soft brown fur lining the inside, and familiar embroidered leaves trailing up the back. They were not the same, but they were so close to the faded, precious image in his mind that for a moment he could do nothing but stumble over his words. "Maker's breath— they— what— they _are_ like my mother's." He blinked quickly, stamping down the foolish sentiment that bloomed hot in his chest. "This is… I do not know what to say."

She was sitting rather awkwardly, and her right thumb was spinning the enchanted ring she always wore on her left index finger. It wasn't quite a habit, but it was a nervous tic he recognised. "Well, you could say that you like them. Maybe tell me that I'm not being stupid—"

Without a great deal of thought, the gloves were set aside and he had her scooped up into his lap. He held her close, nuzzling the crook of her neck, because suddenly everything seemed too bright and brittle, and hiding his face seemed preferable to allowing her to see whatever was twitching through his expression.

"Thank you," he said very quietly against her skin, fighting to keep his tone from faltering. "I have… I have never received such a gift."

Her fingers were brushing the hair at his temple, then behind the taper of his ear, and her lips pressed softly against his forehead. Before she could speak, perhaps terrify him further, Zevran deftly turned a nuzzle into a trail of kisses. He could feel her heartbeat stuttering in her throat, and scraped his teeth lightly along the pulse.

When she gasped, losing whatever words had hung heavy between them an instant before, he felt something in his chest twist like the bite of a cruelly serrated dagger.

"Please," he drawled smoothly, swallowing back agonising memories of another devastatingly beautiful elven face even as he reached up to palm her breast through her thin shift. "Allow me to thank you properly."

* * *

_AN: There was more going on in the Brecilian Forest than I originally planned, and thus Taliesin's appearance is postponed until the next chapter. Then a bit of epilogue goodness as well, I should think. As for scenes with dialogue that actually occurs in-game (like Zev getting the gloves), well, I considered using the game dialogue verbatim, but abandoned that in favour of using it as a guide. It's not jarring, is it?  
_

_ Thank you all very kindly for your reviews! _


	6. Chapter 6

Taliesin made a tempting offer, but of course he would. One did not become so well respected within the Crows without being able to seek out and exploit the very weakest points of an opponent. There had been a moment when Zevran had sworn he could smell salt and clean ocean air gusting through the filthy streets of his beloved Antiva City— but it had been short lived. The thought of Taliesin's sword sinking smoothly into the soft flesh of his sweet lady's belly was painfully sobering, and though he might never again see his homeland, perhaps he could be free. Perhaps that would be enough.

It was extraordinarily satisfying to close those chapters of his life— for possibly the first time, he willingly conjured up an image of Rinna's face as it had been in those final moments, pleading and twisted with terror even as her lifeblood ceased its gruesome gushing and began to cool on the grass. Hopefully, if that face continued to haunt his dreams, the pain would be tempered by the memory of Taliesin's shocked, stupid expression as Zevran's blade slashed hard across his throat. There was screaming nearby, along with the distinct stench of burning hair, and Zevran smiled coldly at Taliesin's limp form even as he turned to join the rest of the fray.

She was a goddess: a holy terror burning a swathe through the few remaining Crows. She was also closer to him than he'd realised, and such distraction was unforgivable, especially when they had been surrounded by well-trained assassins. Truly, Taliesin had been much better prepared for this attempt than Zevran had been for his, but hiring competent mercenaries hadn't been a pressing concern for a suicide run. Taliesin's crew, on the other hand, were all Crows— he recognised a few of their faces, some more familiar than others. These were not brutish blades for hire, nor even raw fledglings looking to make their names.

Still, more lay dead than stood, many of them broken and charred in the kill zone she had created around herself— and around him, in fact. Certainly, he'd felled Taliesin personally, and there were a number of deadly stab wounds on the bodies at their feet, but she had owned this battle. Maker's breath, they'd been completely surrounded by assassins, and she hadn't even drawn her enchanted sword.

Alistair was busy mopping up an unfortunate archer, and Zevran shivered as the cool tingle of Wynne's magic eased the sharp pain in his ribs and the burning gash on his forehead. There was blood stinging his eyes, and he wiped it away just in time to watch a blast of crackling lightning tear through the final, paralysed assassin. He did not know the man's name, but he hardly envied his fate.

Her staff was still extended towards the lifeless, floating body, and a scant moment after he noticed her trembling, he was beside her. They had fought more foes and longer, harder battles, but for whatever reason this fight appeared to have drained her. Blood and dirt smeared between them, soiling her robes and painting her alabaster skin in morbid reds and brown, but she seemed to care little for the mess as she collapsed into his arms.

Her free hand tangled in his hair, gripping almost too hard, and he could tell by the surprising weight that he was the only thing holding her upright. Wynne and Alistair were approaching, he knew, but he could hardly spare a more than a cursory thought for them.

"Are you injured?" he asked, _needed_ to ask, because she was bloody well scaring him with this wilting flower routine.

"I'm all right," she mumbled against his throat. "Not a scratch." As quickly as she'd fallen, she was back in control of her facilities, squeezing the muscles in his neck just slightly as she pulled away. "Are you— how are you?"

Until she asked, with quiet hesitance, almost nervousness, the reality of the situation had lurked unexamined in the back of his mind. Now, suddenly, he felt light-headed.

"Well, there it is," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady even as he motioned vaguely at the bodies behind him. "Taliesin is dead, and I am free of the Crows." This was a new feeling, this _freedom_, and it felt just as terrifying as it did wonderful. She was looking at him with some kind of strange, questioning expression, but the ground had just opened into a yawning chasm under his feet, and he was unsure yet whether or not he had wings. He heard himself speak with a calmness he did not feel. "They will assume I am dead along with Taliesin. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out."

He didn't realise she was reaching out to touch his arm until he felt her fingers brush his skin. His mind was swirling like a gale. What had he _done_?

She smiled, a slight lift of her mouth. She was happy, but it was obviously tempered. "That is a good thing, isn't it?"

Was it? He'd known from the very beginning, when she'd tugged the knots of his bonds loose and helped him to his feet on that desolate road, that it might come to this. No, he'd known it _would_ come to this, had been prepared for it, and if Taliesin hadn't made that offer he would likely not feel so sickeningly conflicted now.

Here, in this company, he was valued. He did not fear abandonment or death as punishment for the smallest mistake.

Here, his life was his own— it was a state of being to which he had not yet become accustomed.

So long as he suspected the Crows were waiting to make their move, he'd had reason to stay with the Wardens. The threat had given him purpose, a goal, and an excuse not to think much past their current quest.

Now the future was stretched out far before him (there was a slight bump in the road— an archdemon— but nothing they could not handle, surely), and the vast breadth of possibilities was overwhelming.

She was still watching him carefully, waiting for an answer, and so he swallowed back his childish fear and drew upon the growing flame of his new found joy. "A very good thing. In truth, it is exactly what I'd hoped for when I swore my oath to you."

"Of course it was," Alistair grumbled loudly, wiping vividly red blood from his sword. Keelin's attention did not waver, however, and Zevran felt a flicker of discomfort at the scrutiny.

"I suppose I could leave now," he said suddenly, _stupidly_, but the words were spilling from his mouth like seawater into a rotted-out skiff. "Go far away where the Crows would never find me." Blatantly ignoring Alistair's scoff and Wynne's soft murmur of disapproval, Zevran observed the stricken expression that flitted across his lover's face and felt a small, shameful measure of satisfaction at seeing it there.

She said nothing, and it only took one long moment of that silence for his stomach to knot at his own selfishness; he would not be so very cruel to this woman. She was the last person in his life who deserved such treatment.

Her expression was a poorly constructed mask— fragments of false composure layered uneasily over distress— and with great care he reached out to touch the edge of her jaw with his fingertips. For the very first time since she had gifted him with them, Zevran wished he were not wearing his fine Dalish gloves, but it would be too awkward to tug them off when everything was tacky with blood.

"I think, however, I could also stay here." He kept his tone light, his smile playful, all to chase away the momentary darkness he had wrought in his lady's exquisite visage. It was an apology, of sorts. "I am sworn to help you, after all, and saving the world seems a worthy goal."

She did not react as he had hoped. There was no musical laughter or sigh of relief— just a tiny elven woman, whose eyes had suddenly hardened to something surprisingly unreadable. The sight made his breath catch painfully.

"You should do whatever you want, Zevran." She was too serious, too sincere, and this was not a conversation he wished to have in front of the others. All too aware of the clumsiness of doing so, given that they were not precisely out for a leisurely stroll, he still motioned for her to come with him as he stepped a short distance away from their small company.

"Please, a moment," he requested, and blessedly she did not argue. It was not true privacy, but with his voice lowered to a murmur and his back to Alistair's heavy frown, it would do. "I am _asking_ you," he began, catching one of her hands with his own and using that hold to pull her close. "Do you want me to leave? Do you need me here?"

She squeezed his fingers gently, and utterly unheeding of the mess on his gloves, she pressed a kiss against his knuckles. "I want you to do what's best for you."

It had been a simple question, he thought. Why did she have to confuse _everything_ so?

"I…" What was best for _him_? "I am not sure how to respond to that. Nobody has ever… I mean, normally these things are decided by others." How quickly she pulled him into the deep, churning seas of his new freedom. _He_ could decide where to go, why, and how to get there. It was his choice.

Shuffling his feet like a boy, Zevran fought with the unfamiliar concept. "Er… I suppose I shall… stay? Is… is that... good?"

"If that is your choice," she replied, still so damnably neutral, but then her gaze softened, _dampened_, and her arms were tight around his neck again. This was most definitely what he wanted; he could scarcely imagine anything better.

* * *

_Elven uprising_— that had sounded suspicious when they'd first heard it from the guards outside the alienage, and it certainly sounded no better coming from this sharp-tongued human. Zevran disliked the man immediately, and the looks with which he was favouring Keelin did not make him any more agreeable. One more narrow-eyed, disdainful leer and Zevran was going to slice him open through the filthy cell's bars.

Perhaps it was because he knew the kind of man this Vaughan Kendells was. If what that elf they'd freed had said was true, along with the rumours running wild through the city, this spoiled noble's brat was little more than a festering sack of garbage. Zevran understood darkness, and he was no stranger to more violent appetites, but he held absolutely no mercy for men who would force themselves on others. It riled something visceral and furious in him.

To her credit, his sweet lady regarded the distasteful, ill-mannered prisoner without a trace of apprehension. "I will need all the votes I can muster in the Landsmeet," she said coolly, and Zevran felt his stomach sour.

Vaughan gripped the bars, his eyes glittering almost feverishly, and Zevran resisted the urge to pull her far away from the beast. "I swear— you will have my voice. Just let me out of this cell."

It made _sense_, but it was still bitter to swallow.

When she reached towards the cell's lock, pilfered key in her delicate hand, Zevran's fingers tightened around the handle of his skinning knife. Then, when she was still too far away for the man to grab at her, she paused.

"Tell me, Arl Vaughan," she began, sounding almost conversational, but Zevran knew better. Alistair and Sten noticed the steel under her words as well, if their immediate tensing was any indication. "Have you ever before met an elven woman who was also a mage?"

The man's lip curled, but Keelin simply looked at him with absolute calm. "What does it matter? I've been in this cell for _months— _Maker damn you, let me _out_—"

"Alistair—" She spoke as if Vaughan hadn't uttered a word, snatching the key back and turning to her fellow Warden with a small frown. "We've killed Howe; that will have weakened Loghain's position considerably, I imagine."

"I said _let me out_," Vaughan snarled, stretching his arm through the bars and clawing ineffectually.

"I would agree," Alistair growled darkly, and Zevran could easily envision what type of thoughts had put such anger in his comrade. How many powerless elven women had fallen prey to this man? "We don't need _this_ kind of help."

Sten grunted, crossing his massive arms. It was difficult to be certain, but the qunari looked rather unhappy as well. "This creature should not be trusted. _Parshaara_— by your will, _kadan_, I will gut it myself."

Rather than answer the Sten, Keelin tilted her head around to peer at the now purple-faced prisoner. "You do not seem especially popular among my companions, my lord."

In such rage, Vaughan's features twisted into something hideous, and his words were spit like foul venom. "_Bitch_. You filthy knife-eared _whore, _I'll—" With a small gesture, the man was struck immobile in a flash of bright light. His eyes could not even shift within their sockets.

"You do not scare me, shem," she snapped, losing just a bit of her unexpected composure. "I am an elf, a mage, and a Grey Warden, but I am not a monster. As much as you might deserve a slow, agonising kind of death, _I_ am better than that."

She shook her head, hooking her arm around Zevran's elbow. "Kill him if you wish, Sten. I'll waste no more time with this."

* * *

"Zev," she had whispered urgently, one hand clutching the side of his neck. "We cannot risk Anora's safety. Please, trust me."

And he _did_ trust her, more fool him; the Sten was built to follow orders from respected commanders, no matter how they might irk him. These were the reasons he watched in agony as his lover was carted away in heavy chains, at sword point.

"I will come for you," he had whispered back before they took her, his voice barely louder than a breath, and for an instant he even risked shifting his gaze from the line of soldiers blocking their escape. Her eyes were wide, pale blue flecked with grey, and there was fear deep within them. "I swear it."

* * *

The past days had been stressful enough that Zevran knew he would have benefited greatly from a full night's sleep— but then he would not be able to watch her rest peacefully next to him. Her skin was bruised, with plum coloured welts on her knees and along her ribs, and her throat was chafed from the hideous collar, but Wynne was adamant that any remaining damage was superficial.

The worst, perhaps, had been the black eye. When he and Leliana had finally found the correct cell in the horrific maze that was Fort Drakon, the injury had been much worse— her left eye nearly swollen shut, and deeply purple from her brow all the way down her cheek. Now, thanks to Wynne, the swelling was gone and the colour had already faded to a sickly yellowish-green.

Had he known before he'd laid open that jailor's throat that the bastard had struck her, the man would _still_ be begging for death.

Enough seething— he would gain nothing but a headache by dwelling on the previous… complication. Especially given that it had already been resolved rather smoothly.

Eamon's hospitality had treated the pair of them so very well the last time they had enjoyed the comforts of his lodgings, and the memory made Zevran smile softly in the dimly lit room. The arl's Denerim estate was smaller than his castle, of course, but the beds were still sinfully comfortable, and the company left little to be desired. He continued to stroke her hair gently as she lay against his side, but his mind kept wandering back to the tangled, filthy mess that had hung around her bare shoulders as she stood inside that cage.

Bursting in with blades drawn, cutting down guards left and right until the floors ran red with blood, well, it was a satisfying fantasy. Reality had been more complex, especially since escaping the fort with their hides relatively intact had been an important goal as well. Every hour she was out of his sight, wholly subject to Loghain's whims… every hour had been excruciating.

The black eye had been the worst for him, but the collar had been her undoing. Even now, sleeping safe beside him, her hand strayed to her own neck. A simple enough iron band, smelted thick and rough— it was not Chantry made, but qunari. A search of the jailor's pockets had produced the oddly shaped key, then a moment later the collar had clanged against the stone floor. The strange, reddish crystal set into the iron had crushed easily under his boot heel, and Keelin had sobbed just once when he kicked it away.

"Can hear you thinking," she murmured sleepily, startling him out of his memories. He had been so caught up that he'd missed her stirring into wakefulness.

"What a nerve-wracking statement, my dear," he replied with a light-heartedness he was struggling to feel. She was _safe_. "Coming from a mage."

Her chuckle ghosted warm against his shoulder, and the hand that had been protecting her neck was suddenly sliding under the quilts to brushing teasingly over his belly. "Kiss me, Zev."

He did, naturally, and it was slow, sweet, and very grounding. Under the scent of lavender and thyme soap that clung to her, she smelled right and whole. She did not taste of blood or fear. She was safe.

It was not a kiss that led anywhere but to more kisses , and Zevran was content with that. Then, eventually, he got up to add more wood to the hearth, and something about the look of her tucked among the blankets led him on a detour. His belt was in the armoire along with his leathers, her robes, and their packs— the earring was carefully hidden away in his belt, as always.

He had never thought to offer the earring to Rinna, and he refused to contemplate whether it had been a lack of opportunity or something else. It was a bauble: an expression of thanks, and nothing more.

When he turned back to the bed, she was watching him in the flickering firelight, but there was nothing prying in her gaze. She was waiting for his return without pretence or expectation, and that was magnificent. With the earring safely palmed, he crawled back under the quilts and drew her close again.

"Now that we have a moment," he began, wrapping his arms snugly around her back. "It occurs to me that I have not yet thanked you for freeing me from the Crows." When she opened her mouth as if to speak, he darted in for a very brief kiss, then retreated just as quickly. "_Listen_, my darling. No matter why you did it, still it was done, and I the benefactor. So... thank you."

"You're welcome," she murmured, reaching up to stroke his jaw with the back of her hand. It was a lovely feeling. "But I was glad to do it, truly."

She was so very genuine by times that it actually gave him pause. Shrugging just a little sadly, he traced his fingers up and down the line of her spine. "I know, and that is perhaps the most remarkable part. I never thought… in the Crows, we do not have _friends_, and yet here you are and I cannot help but consider you such."

A man of his age and experience should not be learning about _friendship_ for the first time in his life, but such were the cards he had been dealt.

When she spoke again, her voice was very quiet— almost anxious. "I, well, I think of you as more than a friend, Zevran."

They were lovers, of course, and he knew that for most people such an intimate relationship was considered deeper than friendship, but in his experience sex was about pleasure or power, and usually little else. Friendship required knowledge and care, and to be _more_ than friends… well.

He considered his words carefully, weighing them on his tongue before he allowed them to escape. "I… must admit that I have thought of you in the same way. I simply had no idea you might… feel the same. How very novel."

She was smiling, with lips curling and eyes gleaming in such a tender expression, and suddenly the bit of gold in his hand felt incredibly heavy. Clearing his throat, Zevran stamped down his ridiculous nervousness.

"I have a gift," he said, and briefly cleared his throat again. "For you. This seems an appropriate moment, yes?"

"You don't have to give me anything," she replied, but then he made the earring appear between them, and watched with pleasure as her eyes followed the glittering gem in the warm light. "Is that an earring? Oh, it's so _beautiful_."

"A memento of my very first job for the Crows." She had never been judgemental of his past, which was something he had learned to appreciate without seeking a reason. Once, when Alistair was still being especially difficult about the whole thing, Zevran had eavesdropped on a rather enlightning diatribe about choice and freedom— in a very straightforward way she had compared the Crows to the Chantry, had ranted at length about Harrowings, and Alistair had been left gaping like a fish by the end.

She was clearly entranced by the earring, _her_ earring now, and so he continued his tale with an indulgent kind of smirk. "A Rivaini merchant prince, wearing a single jewelled earring when I killed him— and little else, in fact. I took it afterwards to mark the occasion, and now I would like you to have it."

Her ears were not pierced, but with his dexterity and the small amount of healing magic she possessed, it would not be especially trying to make a suitable hole. It could also be approached as a very sensual task, and his mind was already alive with the possibilities.

She glanced away from the jewel, meeting his eyes with a flare of surprised joy. "You've kept it all this time, and now you're giving it to me? Truly? I— thank you, Zev."

"Now don't get the wrong idea about it," he warned, only half-joking. A gift of jewellery was always such a dangerous gamble with sentimental women, but he was relatively certain they were on the same page. "You freed me from the Crows, my beautiful Warden, and I am forever grateful. Such a trifling bauble is the least I could give you in return, so feel free to sell it, or wear it— whatever you like."

That he hoped she would wear it, even occasionally, was not a thought he would voice.

"Oh." She blinked at him, her joyous expression fading into sadness. "I am… I'm sorry, Zevran, but I… I cannot accept it." It was like a blast of frigid magic from her staff; where he had been warm and comfortable, he was now bitterly cold. She wriggled, putting just a small amount of distance between them across the pillows. "Thank you, though, for the offer."

Her hands had fallen away, leaving the earring pinched between his finger and thumb, and he fumbled to press it into her palm. "I… look, just… just take it." She didn't yank her hand away from his touch, which was a good sign. "It's meant a lot to me, but so have—" He stopped himself just in time, feeling too clumsy to keep his words in check. "So has what you've done. Please, take it."

She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth, but it was not an arousing sight. He was simply too tense, and it was entirely this _impossible_ woman's doing.

"Zev," she said ominously, and he felt the earring being pushed back into his hand. "After all that has— I'm not… no. I don't want it unless it means something."

"_Means_ something?" This was simply too much. Didn't she _realise_— Sitting up, he pressed fingers against his temple, fighting to remain relaxed. He failed miserably, and his tone reflected his aggravation. "You are a very frustrating woman to deal with. Do you know that?" When she did not flinch, or rescind her foolish refusal, he squeezed the earring tight in his fist and brought it back towards himself. He considered tossing it down on the mattress for good measure, but he was actually trying to avoid melodrama. "We pick up every bit of treasure we come across, until our packs are full to bursting, but not this— _this_ little thing, you refuse. Fine, you don't want the earring? You don't get the earring. Very simple."

She was silent, staring at him, and he did not attempt to stifle his irate snort. Throwing up his hands, he shifted over and got out of bed, ignoring her startled protest.

"No, please wait—" But he was already snatching up his pair of leggings and pulling them on with some haste.

"I am going to clear my head," he said sharply, not bothering with more clothes. Then, remembering their last fight under Arl Eamon's roof, he threw her a bit of mercy. "I promise I will be back. I just… I need some air."

* * *

It had only been two hours, perhaps slightly longer, since he'd left in a snit, and Zevran was being utterly tormented by the grievous nature of his error. After nearly two days enduring Fort Drakon, she was in no fit state to be abandoned so callously.

He did not wish to be away from her— his hands ached for her skin, and his mind would not cease dwelling on the taste of her mouth or the warmth in her gaze. Years trained to observe the smallest twitch or unconscious gesture, to read targets as easily as breathing, meant that he was all too aware that she had a dazzling smile that was only for him. He knew the subtle lean of her body towards his when he stood near, and the fondness that softened her expression when they simply lay quietly together. He knew these things, and Maker help him, they _terrified_ him.

He was the worst kind of fool— his bleeding sentiment was forever causing others to suffer. What a stupid, selfish _prick_ he was.

He actually prayed she would be asleep as he slunk back towards their room; perhaps if he could put off another conversation until morning, he would have some idea of what to say. Using every ounce of his stealth meant that he was little more than a shadow, turning the door handle without the slightest sound to announce his presence, but he had barely stepped one foot inside when it became painfully clear she was no longer in bed.

The room, still lit by the flickering fireplace, was empty. There was no sign a struggle had taken place, and no lingering odour of magic.

It would be just her way to have ignored his assurance and set off to track him down, and he immediately began plotting her likeliest course through the estate, were she on the hunt. She would know to check gardens and the roof, but a quick scan inside the armoire found her boots and robes still within. It seemed only a nightdress was missing, and Zevran cursed irately.

She was off traipsing through a dark estate in only a scant shift, and he knew the unforgiving stone floors were cold enough to sting the soles of his feet. He imagined her shiver as she padded through the icy halls, her undaunted determination, and then darted back out into the corridor. He was quicker than she could ever hope to be, with muscles trained from boyhood to move swift and silent, but a circuit of the estate found nothing.

Always one for pulling opportunity from the jaws of defeat, Zevran stumbled upon the hound instead. He hadn't paid particular attention to the absence of the great, hulking dog when he first returned to their room— the mabari had taken to sleeping some distance from its master now that her evening activities had become more… vocal. Still, the faithful beast was never too far from her.

That was one reason he was surprised to hear the deep, rumbling snoring as he slipped quietly through an otherwise unremarkable corridor. There were nothing but bedchambers and storage closets lining this particular hall, he thought. It was a risky proposition, but Zevran still squatted just outside what he estimated to be snapping radius, then whistled softly. The dog snuffled at the sound, and even in the dark Zevran could see when one small chestnut eye slit open.

"Good evening, my friend," he said quietly, but only managed to earn himself a low, dangerous growl. His dramatic exit had not gone unnoticed, of course. "Peace, friend. I wish to make amends with our mutual mistress— I am fully aware that I am an idiot, but she should not be alone tonight."

There was a tense silence, then the dog huffed out a long, exasperated sounding breath. Taking the lack of bared teeth as a good sign, Zevran ducked his head in a brief bow. "_Bravo_. You will have my eternal thanks if you point me in her direction."

Barely moving at all, the dog lifted his massive head and turned its muzzle towards the door just across the hall. Zevran's mind was whirling in an instant— _Alistair's_ room, truly? Was he _such_ a despicable man that he deserved that kind of spiteful attack to his dignity?

Perhaps so, after all.

No promises, he had told her. No claims. Yet, Zevran could no more stop his fingers from flying to the door's handle than he could have plucked the moon from the sky. It twisted easily, silently— already unlocked because the Wardens were both naïve _children_— and he eased it open barely a hairsbreadth.

There was a lamp burning low on the desk, but the only noise to be heard was the faint, steady sound of sleeping breaths. Cautiously, Zevran pushed the door open just enough to investigate the rest of the room, but the tangle of limbs his imagination had so thoughtfully provided did not materialise. Alistair sat chivalrously in the room's hard backed chair, nightshirt still firmly in place and fingers laced over his stomach; with brows furrowed in concentration, the former templar's attention was focused wholly on the lump of blankets currently occupying his bed.

Zevran could see one pale arm where it wrapped tight around a pillow, and just a hint of the cornsilk of her hair. His jaw clenched— regardless of the innocence of the situation, it did not change the fact that his sheer spinelessness had driven her to the bed of another.

"Oh Andraste's blood—" Alistair's barely audible hiss brought him up short; he'd been careless in his distraction, had been spotted, and now the other man was glaring blackly at him. "She just got to sleep, you absolute horse's _arse_."

He wanted to argue, but he had come searching because his darling girl should not be alone. If she had company, his presence was no longer necessary.

His clandestine retreat, on the other hand, would cause so much less drama for everyone involved.

With that in mind, he slipped back into the corridor.

* * *

Zevran had never felt more like a dangerous beast than he did the next morning when, while stealing food from the larder in an attempt to avoid an awkwardly crowded breakfast, Keelin had flitted into the cool basement room with fingers twisted together in distressed looking knots. Her eyes were lowered, and her head tilted away almost as if she expected a slap, yet still she stepped lightly into the room and closed the door behind herself. She was approaching with more caution than he had shown the mabari, and it _hurt_ to see.

He considered simply not turning away from the shelves of food, but he sincerely doubted this was an issue that could be ignored until it sorted itself. He had so greedily and unthinkingly become entangled with this woman, and now even if he could not give her what she desired, he did not wish to lose her.

So, he set his pilfered bounty aside and leaned back against a keg, folding his arms across his chest and crossing his legs at the ankle. To open his arms, drawing her forward into a deeply apologetic embrace, or drop to his knees to beg forgiveness— these things he did not allow.

He did not have to wait long for her to speak. "Just tell me," she said, without a single quaver in her voice. Still, she would not meet his gaze. "If you're still angry with me."

"I was not angry," he replied, and it was mostly true. "And I am not angry now. I was frustrated, as I said."

He watched her narrow shoulders go rigid, but then she seemed to shake off the flash of irritation. Perhaps above all things, he did not want submission or surrender from this powerful, vibrant woman.

Her hands continued to wring slowly and painfully. "Alistair said you came looking for me." Now _that_ was a surprise. Zevran fully expected his visit to be very purposefully forgotten by the other Grey Warden. Finally, Keelin's eyes flickered up, snaring him as firmly as if she'd used her magic. "You should have woken me. The nightmares… they're less overwhelming when you're there."

He was more than man enough to admit, in hindsight at least, that he allowed panic to overcome him. It sounded— it _felt_ too much as if he were depended upon, and suddenly his stomach dropped to his feet, his heart began hammering its way through his ribs, and he needed _out_. Her eyes were soft and sweet, unreservedly _trusting_, and he did not deserve to have anyone look upon him in such a way.

"I will—" He swallowed thickly, keeping his tone very measured. "I believe I will sleep elsewhere, just until this Landsmeet business is over with. There are many good reasons to keep our minds clear and focused, yes?"

He did not move from his casual, closed-off posture, but his fingers dug hard into his own arm when she made a small, heartbreaking sound. Then she stepped closer, breaking the invisible barrier that had been so wide and dangerous between them.

"Zevran," she said very quietly, and he had never before considered there could be a truly terrible way his name might pass through her lips. There was an undercurrent of brittle anger that reminded him starkly of the immense power she possessed, even as the sight of her tore at his heart. "Are you— do you want to end this?"

It was a way out, like a gift from the Maker himself, but Zevran was a damned _coward_.

"If that is your wish," he feinted, and she narrowed her eyes.

"No, I asked you first. Do you want to end this, Zev? Tell me so, and I will… leave you be."

Once, early in his career, he'd been stupidly careless during a job and a very large qunari bodyguard had nearly succeeded in drowning him in a bathtub. He remembered the feeling of suffocation vividly, of sweet smelling water burning his lungs and eyes, and the animalistic terror that had clawed through him as he struggled against succumbing to the darkness. There was no bald-headed qunari, nor even a tub of water in the larder, but Zevran was struck by a flash of the same kind of fear.

Was Keelin the qunari, however, or the boot knife he'd managed to bury in the giant's throat? Was this stifling, suffocating feeling truly fear of being with her, or was it being without her that terrified him so?

Would his darling girl bring his death, or his rescue?

Working entirely on instinct, just as he had when he'd kicked and thrashed against the bodyguard's iron grip, Zevran slid smoothly to his feet and was standing before his lover in an instant. She allowed his fingers to guide her jaw upwards, and did not shy away when he leaned down for a chaste, tender kiss— pulling away as quickly as he'd descended, Zevran rested his forehead against hers with his eyes tightly closed.

"I do not—" Her palm was cool and slightly clammy against the side of his neck, and he growled. "I need time. Just… give me time."

"Then I will wait," she murmured, and he bolted out of the larder as if the archdemon itself were hot on his heels.

* * *

_AN: Man, this is getting longer than I'd planned. There's just so much of the Zev romance plot that gets expanded late in the game, and I knew that, but I suppose it just didn't hit me full force until I was trying to cram it all in. No complaints, though, because I do love writing this Zevran (I also love my **Reconstruct** post-game Zev, but for different reasons)._

_Anyway, I'll try to have the next bit up soon-ish, and if I can be shameless for a minute, I want to mention that I recently posted a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fic, if that's your thing. It's Giles/Ethan, it's slash, and it's smut.  
_


	7. Chapter 7

The alienage in Denerim was like all others he had ever visited— filthy, scandalously poor, and choking on its own misery even as the elves inside fought to maintain even a shred of pride and happiness. It sickened him.

Then again, he'd done a rather thorough job of sickening himself already that morning.

Keelin wasn't ignoring him; it might have been easier to cope had she been. No, his cruel lady was treating him nearly the same as she had before, but where sweet affection had lit her face and warmed his soul, now there was poorly disguised tension and sadness. It was _agonising_ that she would try to spare him discomfort by squashing her own sorrow.

He would have stayed away, given himself the space he needed to take even one gasping breath, but she could not venture into the alienage without him. He refused to consider that.

He would have followed some distance back, safely removed from her nearness, her smell, her warmth, but that would mean encouraging Alistair to take her hand as she stepped carefully around grimy puddles. It would mean that the tragic, painful glint in her eyes would be kept silent or turned to find comfort in another's arms, and that was not something he would endure.

So, instead, he walked beside her as if nothing were amiss. He gripped her small hand firmly in his own, and kept her on course even as the trail of polluted bodies began to thicken on the ground, some sobbing and others silent. He pulled her back from the pitiful, plague-infected elves, and did not shy away from the grief in her expression. No, he squeezed her fingers and laid his hand soothingly on the curve of her spine, and did all those foolish things that made his mind spin— and he had thought he'd been suicidal _before_. Maker's breath.

He was appalled, but not entirely shocked by the presence of slavers. After all, he had seen the darkness flickering deep in Loghain's eyes himself, if only for a moment. They were the eyes of a cornered creature, one who could feel the doors of its new-found cage closing around it. They were certainly not the eyes of a man who baulked at true ugliness when choices were few.

Now, after a rousing fight and a satisfying conclusion to the slavers' careers, it was all mopped up. There was an elven child clinging to Keelin's legs, a ratty little thing with a bony frame and features drawn too large by hunger, and Zevran saw just enough of himself in the lad that it was impossible to watch his lover comfort the weeping child. He turned his attention to the swiftly emptying cages instead, and wondered idly if any of these elves were the boy's parents. Regardless, if the unfortunate had occurred the alienage would absorb him like family, and he would likely live a penniless, unremarkable life if he managed to survive to adulthood. Just like the rest.

"Hush, little one," Keelin was cooing, and he could hear the threat of tears quivering in her tone. "You are safe now. You were so very brave."

"Aran!" The shout of a woman snapped him to attention, and he whipped around in time to see another elven woman nearly tackle the boy with a joyful cry. There was weeping and desperate words of thanks, and then the entire fuss seemed to die down in one mass exodus. The elves were not eager to linger in their former prison, and as the boy and his mother disappeared into the small, milling crowd, soon enough the warehouse was all but deserted.

Then they were alone, the four of them, and he did not think to object when Keelin stepped close, laying her head on his shoulder.

* * *

Despite the dubious expressions such an offer put on the faces of their human companions, Keelin accepted the hospitality of their elven hosts for one evening of muted but intense relief, and a torrent of gratitude. The doe-eyed young man they'd released from Howe's dungeon offered relatively clean pallets, as did the redheaded spitfire, Shianni. It was unfortunate, but between the plague and the slavers, what had obviously been a crowded alienage now had a painful abundance of space.

"Leliana and I will stay with Shianni," she was saying, as Zevran endured both the bard's curious, slightly accusatory scrutiny, as well as Keelin's obviously forced composure. At least Alistair was distracted, peering around at the filthy, dilapidated hovels with his face drawn in compassion and poorly disguised pity. "You two can bunk with Soren, unless any of you would rather head back to the arl's estate."

Their fearless leader had already made it clear that none of them was required to remain within the alienage, but that she herself would be staying the night. Understandably, the three of them had been in agreement about the wisdom of leaving any member of their party alone in a plague ravaged, lawless slum.

"I am looking forward to the evening, my friend." Leliana's mouth was curved in a wistful half-smile, and her eyes had finally lost their sheen of tears. "There has been so much ugliness heaped upon this place, but the spirit of the community is strong and beautiful. It gives me hope for what might happen elsewhere, after the Blight is defeated."

"Exactly right," Keelin replied, then inhaled a deep, satisfied breath as if the air were not thick with a stink that would rival the most monstrous garbage scow in Rialto Bay. "Let's go join them, then. There'll be terrible wine, and good stories."

She was partly correct: the stories were a bit pat, and the wine was truly piss-poor, but the company was not entirely dreadful. Most of the elves had no interest beyond darting into the elder's home to blubber out a few more words of thanks, perhaps press Keelin's hands, then escape back to spend time with whatever members of their families remained. There were a few, however, piled into the small house as the evening gave way to night.

The hearth was warm, flickering shadows over the walls and the faces of the elves. This Valendrian, holding court from his perch on one of the room's two chairs, had a deeply haunted expression playing around his eyes, but his voice was steady as he recounted some half-remembered alienage yarn for Leliana's rapt benefit. The others, elves and Alitstair alike, listened with slightly less captivation— Zevran had enough to keep his attention, with Keelin seated thousands of miles away across the room.

He was no rank amateur when it came to acting the suave, exotic man, though perhaps he was being slightly more standoffish than good sense dictated. Ruining the revelry with his sulking would be gauche, whether or not Keelin was suffering under the weight of so many admiring glances. _Looking_ was hardly a reason to get one's smallclothes twisted— he could not imagine the utter dreariness of never again drinking in the sight of a beautiful body or a lovely face— it was simply a small pleasure to brighten a dull world.

Before he had gone crazy, he had taken great pleasure in the way others' eyes had followed his magnificent lover, so often in awe of the charm and power this gentle elven woman possessed. She was a marvel to behold, and he was not a man to keep such radiance locked away. Jealousy made no sense— if she chose to be with him, what harm was there in a sea of longing looks? Zevran certainly enjoyed his own share of glances, on the odd occasion, and Keelin had never objected.

Now that he felt her slipping away from him— No, that wasn't right. If he could do nothing else, he could at least find honesty in his own thoughts.

Now that he was pushing her away through his own weakness, he could feel a sour, unfamiliar burn in his gut. He leaned against the far wall, away from the fire, and watched every flicker of attraction, of wonder, and of lust that passed over the faces of these grateful elves as Keelin reclined in the warm light. Her smile was sweet, her reactions to the appreciation were genuine, and Zevran had no doubt that she would find no shortage of willing, eager bed partners, were she that sort of woman.

That she was most definitely _not_ that sort of woman, and that Zevran was so completely sure of such a thing… well.

He needed to be away from so many angular faces and tapered ears. His mind was in no fit state to handle such a thing, his heart too raw and open, and he was seeing ghosts.

Very cautiously, with just the right amount of stealth to remain entirely unnoticed, Zevran slipped out of the warm little house and into the dark of the night. There was a pile of crates nearby, and when the slightly rotted wood did not give way under the pressure of his boot, he sat upon them. He'd managed to keep a wine bottle largely to himself for the evening, but had only sipped at the foul drink, barely draining the neck. Now he set the bottle aside, unwilling to entertain the foolish urge to drown himself in the vinegary swill.

Sitting in the moonlight, drinking wine and thinking about Keelin. Again. He'd become a pitiful cliché, not even worthy of the insipidly romantic garbage Wynne read.

There was a cat down the nearest alley, yowling in heat. It made him chuckle, leaning his head against the wall behind him and pinching the bridge of his nose. He could still see the doorway of Valendrian's home, clearly defined by the faint light glowing around it, but it did not open. He sat, unsure whether he wanted to more firmly suppress thoughts of Rinna or Keelin, because struggling against memories of both was exhausting.

He had killed Rinna, not with his own blade but with fear and stupidity. He had baulked at confronting her about Taliesin's accusation, because the idea of betrayal made so much more sense than the idea of affection. Of course she would get close to him, distract him and weaken him, when her goal was to slide a knife in his back. She was a Crow, and had been taught harsh realities no differently than he— if there was no room in his scarred, hardened heart for love, how could it exist in hers? _Of course_ it had been a ruse.

He was an idiot.

Perhaps the Crows had imparted their lessons better than he realised. Perhaps he was doomed to forever destroy any good thing that came into his life. Perhaps it was better that way— safer, at least. And consistent.

Truly, an idiot of epic proportions. Leliana could write a tale.

She was not coming out to check on him, and he knew he should be less surprised than he felt. He had made his desire for space, for time to think, very plainly known. His wishes, stupid and cowardly as they were, were being respected. The cat was still screeching, and somewhere in the distance he heard what sounded like toms fighting. Love, in all its painful, desperate, ridiculous glory, was in the air.

It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

The next night, back at the estate, he did not sleep. Asking the arl for the use of another bedroom would have raised questions, whether or not the nobles were too polite to voice them, and Zevran would do nothing to plant any sort of doubt in their allies' minds. This Landsmeet felt nearly as dangerous as the House of Crows, though it was much easier to navigate— Fereldan politicians schemed with all the subtlety of a swinging maul, where Antivans largely preferred poison.

The night was calm, at least. The estate was quiet, the queen secured (perhaps caged, but only a little) in her chambers, and the proof of Loghain's devious, bitterly cruel plans was piling up quite nicely. Regicide through dereliction of duty, conspiracy, kidnapping, slavery, torture, murder… the arrogance it took to leave such a clear, damning trail would be staggering to any decent assassin.

There was a rather lovely garden in the estate's rear grounds, lush with flowers, vegetables, and what little fruit could grow in such a harsh climate. It was precisely the right time of year for pears to hang heavy on their trees, still hard and green but not without a hint of sweetness, and he swung one neatly stripped core between his fingers as he stared up at the dark, overcast sky. There had been little sun to speak of that day, and the drizzling rain had dampened the ground, but still Zevran lounged on the soft grass with one leg crossed over his bent knee. His cuirass was safe and relatively dry on a nearby bench, and the chill that seeped into his back from his wet undershirt was strangely satisfying. He had been cold for months, for _years_ if he was willing to risk being honest with himself, and just when he found a woman who made him feel warm, he fouled it up.

_A woman who made him feel warm_… he was losing his mind, as he'd feared. What simpering tripe.

It wasn't quite late enough that the sound of footsteps set him immediately into a defensive stance, but he did toss the pear core aside in favour of resting his hand near the dagger still strapped to his hip. The gait was familiar, however, as was the greenish glow of the spell wisp that bobbed through the night air. Despite the recognition, the tension remained, even if it was a different sort.

"Over here," he called, despite the sour feeling clawing up his throat. The wisp changed direction, approaching him now, and he let out a long, steadying breath through his nose.

He continued to look up at the sky when she stood beside him, then began squinting blinding at the clouds as if looking for something as she sat beside his shoulder. It was childish, but he tried not to care.

"You don't have to sleep outside, you know," she said quietly, with the barest hint of reproach. "Not that you're currently sleeping— do _not_ argue semantics with me again or I will turn you into a field mouse and keep you in a jar."

His traitorous mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile, and he turned his face just slightly into the shadows. When he did not answer, she poked his shoulder rather hard.

"I said a jar, and not a cage, because I'm not entirely sure I'd give you air holes." There was an undercurrent of real anger in her words, and he hardly blamed her for it, but it was the feel of her touch shifting from a sharp poke to an affectionate squeeze that made him cringe. He wasn't certain she noticed, but she did remove her hand.

After a few moments of strange, uncomfortable silence, she spoke again. "Should I… Should I just go, then?"

"No, stay." Yes, he was indeed losing his mind. Swallowing thickly over his suddenly dry tongue, Zevran turned to look at her in the peculiar light of the wisp. The stark colour made her skin appear sickly pale, and he hardly wanted to imagine what it did for his own complexion. He could clearly see pinkness lingering around the blonde fans of her eyelashes, and the sight of it made him unaccountably furious.

Sitting up so quickly it made her gasp, Zevran found his hand pressed against her cheek before he could consider how dangerous such a move could be. "Zev," she said softly, questioning, and his thumb brushed the smooth line of her cheekbone.

"I knew I would hurt you," he growled, feeling every word rip from his throat like jagged glass. "I am not a man worth wasting tears on, sweet girl."

"Shut _up—_" The smack she delivered to his chest, coupled with the fire that lit her eyes, pushed his breath from his lungs. "Maker damn you, Zevran Arainai, stop treating me like a _child_. I am a grown woman and I can make my own decisions, even if some of them are stupid bloody mistakes!"

He deserved this, and so much more. He deserved for her words to cut, to _flay_, and to be left abandoned in a miserably damp garden with the taste of unripe pear and regret bitter in his mouth. She hit him again, just above his heart, and he knew he deserved all the force of her magical strength to cleave through his ribcage and leave him bleeding.

But she stayed.

"_Damn_ you, Zevran," she said again, and he did not mention that it was years too late for that, because then she was jerking away from his touch and crossing her arms, looking for all the world like a brewing storm. "I promised myself I wouldn't get upset like this."

There was little for him to say to that, truly, and so he waited in silence. Eventually she sighed, sounding utterly exasperated and more than a little saddened.

"You seem different now," she murmured, and he was very aware that such a question was polite euphemism for _you seem to have gone raving mad for no obvious reason_. "I wish you would talk to me."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the heel of his hand and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. "I do not know what to say."

"I know—" He flinched when her fingers began to stroke his brow, but he did not open his eyes. "I know I said I would wait, but I… I'm _scared_, Zevran. I feel like I'm drowning in this, and whatever end is coming is looming darkly over my shoulder, and if you are going to leave me alone I just… I just want to know."

This was unfair, to her especially, and he forced himself to look into her face again. "I… no, this…" Words had deserted him, his thoughts were battling each other between his ears, but he pressed on. No matter the outcome, she could not be allowed to think he would cast her aside. "I— _brasca_, I am acting like a child, I realize. I apologize. Let me try to explain."

Her fingers were still soft and soothing on his forehead, and he reached up to take her hand very lightly in his own. He could not afford to be distracted. Sighing slightly, he tried not to focus on the delicate smoothness of her skin, but could not bring himself to let her go entirely… perhaps _that_ was the crux of the issue.

Finally, the silence stretched too long, and he knew he must speak. "An assassin… must learn to forget about sentiment. It is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can, when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless." When he glanced up to catch her eye, he felt lost. "I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet…"

She waited, but when no more appeared forthcoming, she attempted to throw him a rope. "What are you saying, Zev? Are you… are you in love with me?"

"I don't know," he replied very quietly, wanting nothing more than to draw her to him and hide in the comfort of her arms. "How would you know such a thing?" When she frowned, he felt a torrent of words bubble up from deep in his chest, and prayed briefly that they might be the correct ones.

"I grew up amongst those who sold the illusion of love, and then I was trained to make my heart cold in favour of the kill. Everything I have been taught says what I feel is wrong. Yet I cannot help it. Since the first morning I woke with you in my arms, I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand me at all?" It would be a minor miracle if she did, considering how little _he_ understood it, but he held out a glimmer of hope.

That, in itself, was strange. To _hope_ was a new, frightening sensation, but his beautiful lady seemed to sow hope in every footstep she left across this country.

She ducked her head, her cheeks reddening. "I am no wiser than you in that area, Zevran. In the Tower, such affections were punished severely. We didn't court each other, or hold hands in the corridors, or even risk _feeling_… I mean, I never— I am confused as well, you know."

"I know, _amora_." Steeling himself, he took one finally survey of the roads laid out before him, and chose a path. He had never been so terrified. "All I am asking is if there might be some future for us, some possibility of… I do not know what."

He was a fool to ask about a future when their present course was so dangerous, but then she smiled, and it was not unlike the breaking light of dawn after a terrible storm. "I hope so, Zev. I think… I know how I feel about you."

He could not help searching her wide, sincere eyes, and every flicker of emotion he saw within them sent shivers down his spine. He might be weak, might be caught up in sentimental claptrap, but he could feel warmth curling through him.

There was one more thing he needed to do, and without breaking the tender gaze she had him caught up in, he reached down with his free hand into one of the hidden compartments in his belt. "I still have the earring," he said, hesitating for only a moment before he brought the trinket up between them. "And I would like to give it to you… as a token of affection. Will you take it?"

When she leaned forward, the rosy fullness of her lips quirking just slightly, he refrained from catching her tempting mouth with his own. This was an answer he needed to hear, clearly and with certainty. "Zevran," she murmured, and he could hear the barest edge of teasing lacing her otherwise painfully earnest tone. "That… sounds like a proposal."

Impossible to the bitter end, of course. He could not afford to feint, to weasel out of such a question, but he was no more than a wet-winged fledgling when it came to this _love_ thing, and she was already tossing him out of the nest. Such was life with his beautiful and cruel lover.

He found words, after a moment, and kept his voice extremely neutral. "Not unless you wish it."

She licked her lips, just a brief flash of her tongue, and very calmly slid her fingers up his wrist, over his knuckles, only to rest not quite touching the glittering bit of gold. "Then yes, I will take it."

When the air rushed from his lungs in a great relieved sigh, it sounded almost like _oh thank the Maker_, but the whispered breath was not quite clear enough to be sure. "Good," he said, clearing his throat. "Then that is enough for me. I am sorry for acting so strangely. I think… I think I will be better, now. Much better."

A kiss pressed against the back of his hand brought his head firmly out of the clouds, and reminded him very pleasingly that he was now tied to this woman in a way he never expected. It was bizarre to realise that he truly would stay by her side, through every conceivable horror, until the day she tired of him. It was even more bizarre that he did not wish to flee from such a thing.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" she asked, still slightly hesitant, and he was determined to banish all such doubt. He was her man, wholly and without reservation.

Leaning in, he caught her in a slow, tender kind of kiss that pulled a shiver and a needy sound from her. Sex in an arl's garden, under a pear tree, sounded rather agreeable to both his current state of mind, and his current burning need to touch and taste every inch of her skin, but it seemed his lover had other ideas.

"Zev—" Her voice was low and breathy when she pulled away, her slender hands cradling both sides of his face. His own fingers were busy stroking her thigh and up the curve of her hip, preparing to draw her into his lap, but then she spoke again. "There's—_ Oh_— there's a bath being drawn in our chambers, if you're interested. Room for two, I'm sure."

A bath, a tub... how fitting. Still, the thought of his delectable minx all slick and glistening wet was more than tempting enough to banish unpleasant memories.

"Lead on, _mi amora_," he purred.

* * *

Getting from the gardens to their bedchamber without incident was a challenge, because he'd be damned if he was going to stop kissing her neck when she made such encouraging whimpers. She was _his_ lady, he was her devoted servant, and he would give her such pleasure that the holy Andraste herself would be envious. They managed to make it in one piece, however, and there was indeed a steaming tub and a red-faced chambermaid waiting for them as they stumbled inside.

He tossed his cuirass in the direction of the wardrobe just before yanking his tunic over his head, and his gaze did not stray from the woman who held his heart, even as the chambermaid scurried out of the room with a squeak. Keelin was flushed as well, pink creeping over her usually porcelain cheeks, and she was already making quick work of her robes.

The ornate belt and the quilted wrap around her ribs fell away, the outer layers of the robes were being loosened with sharp tugs, and Zevran needed to take some action. Darting forward, he caught her around the waist with one arm, pulling her snug against himself, and reached up to unfasten her collar. The creamy slopes of her shoulders and the freckled swell of her breasts made his mouth water— the decision was made.

"Please," he murmured, nuzzling against her ear. "You are too much… too sweet. Let me taste you so we might bathe in peace." When she moaned, and did not resist the move back towards the bed rather than towards the tub, he took that as a very good sign. She allowed him to ease her back to lie on the downy coverlet, her feet still firmly planted on the floor, and he did not try to hide his grin. Her hips were twitching, her hands were a familiar tether in his hair, and her smallclothes were already promisingly damp when he reached beneath the hem of her half-shucked robes.

She was still wearing her boots, and the thick heels dug sharply into his back as he kissed and licked and worshipped her as she deserved. Her thighs were quivering, her muscles jumping under his hands, and this was not terrifyingly different to enjoy with a woman he cared for so deeply. He remained afraid, but he would not run away from this.

The sound of his name, gasped and chanted over and over like the most erotic kind of prayer, was all the encouragement he needed to redouble his efforts, and then she was arching off the mattress, crying out like an injured fawn. He kept it up until she pushed him away, panting and cursing softly in that way that sent jolts of gratification down his spine.

The hands in his hair pulled, encouraging him up to meet her, but rather than continue their exertions to a logical conclusion, Zevran let his hands fly as quick as he was able. Her stockings rolled away, her boots hit the rug with a dull thump, and before she could do more than suck in a surprised breath, he had her robes and breast cloth laid open. Naked, willing, and simply _perfect_— he scooped her up, a squealing bundle of his own good fortune, and the sinfully hot bathwater splashed over the sides of the large wooden tub when he dumped her into it.

She thrashed, sputtering and splashing more water about as her muzzy mind caught up with reality, and he laughed brightly as he pushed his leggings and smalls down his legs and kicked them aside. She was sopping, the floor was drenched, but her arms still opened for him when he crawled into the tub.

Glaring, certainly, under a veil of dripping hair that he pushed thoughtfully out of her eyes, but still she welcomed him. Her hands on his back burned hotter than the water around them— it might be possible, given enough time, that she would burn away the darkness and spectres that still haunted him. If anyone could, it would be her without question, and he was more than willing to let her try.

* * *

_AN: The end looms, friends. Gah. What's left? Landsmeet, dark ritual decision, then archdemon...oh, and Zev hasn't even told her about Rinna. Shit, yo. It's about to get real up in here. _


	8. Chapter 8

That very night, after glorious bouts of lovemaking and sleeping and lovemaking again, Zevran found himself sprinting through shadowed corridors to the estate's kitchens. He required a darning needle, and a bit of clean cork or a potato— the thought of the beautiful, astonishing woman he'd left snug and secure in their shared bed did much to quicken his steps.

In fact, if it weren't for that very same woman all but demanding her earring _at once_, he would still be enveloped in her adoring embrace.

Love was foolish, and those caught up in it invariably turned into simpering idiots— that is what he had been taught, but it had never rung entirely true. Well, perhaps it was _true_, but it did not sound entirely _unpleasant_. There might be a spring in his step, Maker help him, but he was trying not to let his stupid grin completely overtake his good sense.

If she wished her earring, he was her willing servant. Anything, truly, to keep her mood light as the Landsmeet loomed dark and ominous just on the horizon. Even now, with dawn still hours away and the estate quiet in slumber, there was a tension thrumming through the corridors. If Zevran could have figured out some way to steal off to the palace and slit Loghain's throat, he would have been gone in an instant… but that was not a risk he would take. Not anymore.

Luck, it seemed, was with him. The few sentries who managed to catch sight of him gave him no more than narrow-eyed glances. He had no burning need to be kept from his lady's bed any longer than necessary, and it appeared the guards were good enough to be obliging in that regard.

Potatoes were plentiful in the dark larder, but he also snatched up a bottle of finely aged wine hidden away far in back, behind barrels of pickled meat. The pilfered prize would allow Keelin the choice of cork or potato, and serve to dull a bit of the sting as well, if imbibed properly. A needle was next— a small basket of sewing supplies and a few torn shirts lying near the scullion's sleeping pallet proved most fortuitous in that regard. The young servant was snoring away, curled up beside the smouldering hearth, and Zevran took a moment to quietly add two sizable logs to the coals. The boy would be able to sleep nearly 'til dawn before more wood was needed.

Zevran smiled slightly to himself, ignoring the faint voice in his head that was still wailing about weakness and foolishness. Given the good fortune with which he'd been favoured, it seemed only appropriate to sow a good deed or two when the opportunity presented itself.

With his quarry found and retrieved, Zevran slipped silently out of the kitchens. His skin was itching to press against her again, and he had not quite completed his penance— at least, not by his own estimation. Perhaps a few more years at his sweet lady's mercy…

She was resplendent in the warm, flickering light of the fire when he finally slipped back into their chambers. His shirt, dry but marked with dirt and grass stains across the back and shoulders, draped from her slender form. It obscured and highlighted in equal measure, hiding the delicious expanse of bare skin he knew waited beneath, but the firelight shining through it served to cast her figure in tempting relief.

With her head turned in profile, he could see her eyes were closed and her nose was buried in the shirt's collar. His shirt, his smell, and the faint flush darkening her cheeks…

It was… Andraste's mercy, it hurt, _stung_, just a little, in some strange new place in his chest.

Silently, he placed the items on the rumpled bed and padded over to her, standing just behind. He waited, allowing his presence to ease naturally into the scope of her awareness, and after a few moments he could not contain his smile when she leaned back against him. The linen of his shirt was warm from the fire, and he made no attempt to slither under the fabric as he wound his arms around her waist. The flesh of her neck, slightly salty with dried sweat, was enough to keep his thoughts occupied, and she offered it up to his lips without hesitation.

This was too good for him, he knew, but those were doubts he needed to suppress if they were both to survive the days to come. He needed to ignore what _he_ deserved, and focus on _her_. His beautiful, magnificent Keelin, who deserved to revel in everything that she desired. Her hand, reaching up to grip his bicep as she arched back into his attentions, reminded him of all those desires that were within his power to provide.

* * *

If she kept touching her ear, her lips twitching secretly as she so obviously kept her gaze from straying in his direction, he was going to drag her out of this strategy meeting and into the closest relatively private room. A sliver of healing magic had gone far, and her new accessory was causing her no pain. He, on the other hand, was _aching_.

Somehow, the unbelievable knowledge that this woman had every intention of staying at his side for the foreseeable future made him burn for her all the more. It was ridiculous, a little dangerous, and it seemed his lady was catching on quickly as well.

"The longer we tarry, the longer my father has to gather support." Zevran snorted softly as Anora's voice cut through his wandering thoughts, but thankfully the sound was drowned out by Eamon's irritated huff.

"Your father has had _months_ to gather support—" The arl pressed one finger against the finely waxed tabletop, and Zevran barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. These Fereldans were such a talkative people, truly. Action was much more exciting. "Rushing headlong into a Landsmeet will guarantee failure; surely you see that."

From his position leaning against the wall, Zevran could see Anora's hands clench tight in her lap, but neither her face nor her tone betrayed her irritation. "We cannot delay forever, either. The darkspawn will not wait while we bring our politics back in order, and I would rather not risk the horde descending upon my people while the army stands divided."

Alistair, sitting to Keelin's left, rubbed the back of his neck and stayed silent. Having been told of Eamon's ambitions for the bastard prince, Zevran felt some measure of empathy— it was not always a comfortable position, to have one's future decided by others. Riordan was a shadow, seemingly engrossed in a book as he sat motionlessly over near the hearth, but Zevran knew where the Orlesian's attention rested.

Keelin, having abandoned her playful, secret teasing as the tension in the room began to boil, was quickly retreating behind the high walls of _Grey Warden_ that had been building over months of danger and delicate political manoeuvring. He was truly proud of her, his sheltered little mage, and would continue to approve of the powerful force she commanded so long as she allowed him to peel all those hardened layers away occasionally.

"Squabbling will get us nowhere," she interjected, utterly calm. Zevran knew better, and silently applauded her strength. The two nobles turned as one, and Keelin very effectively masked her slight flinch with a casual shake of her head. "If I may, your Majesty, my lord, you are both correct, but the Landsmeet is an unavoidable thing. We must make certain we are as prepared as possible, but it might be best if we did not allow Loghain to make the first move. We are already in the weaker position, even with mounting evidence of the teyrn's… darker decisions come to light."

Anora preened just slightly at having her stance supported, while Eamon frowned. "What do you suggest, Warden?"

* * *

"I am going to have to speak, aren't I?" Zevran glanced up from tightening his baldric at the sound of the soft question. Keelin was staring at herself in the small mirror near their chamber's wash basin and pitcher, tugging at the various hems and edges of her robes. Even as they prepared, word was likely travelling to the nobility scattered throughout Denerim that the Landsmeet was called to order— the very _day_ after hours of debating and discussion had ended in Eamon's acquiescence.

Tucking his gloves into his belt, Zevran came around the bed and brushed his bare knuckles gently over her jaw. There was a slight tremble there, and a flicker of fear in her eye, but he had little doubt her expression would be hardened to dragonbone before they stepped foot in the Landsmeet Chamber.

"Most assuredly, yes," he agreed. It would be foolish and insulting to attempt a comforting falsehood. "But you managed to talk me into bed, so how hard can this be?"

There it was, the smile he'd been seeking, and he let out an exaggerated gust of breath when she slapped her hand against his armoured chest. "I'm surprised I didn't find you waiting naked in my bedroll that very first night, you irrepressible rake."

It was no strain to gather her close, resting his cheek on her hair as she curled into his embrace. "If we had a bit more time," he murmured, stroking his fingers up her bare arm and drawing a pleased shiver from her. "I would show you irrepressible, _mi amora_. You'll have to make quick work of this Landsmeet business so I can ravish you properly."

She laughed weakly, then lifted her head just enough to press a kiss against the hollow of his throat. "As if defeating Loghain and the Blight weren't enough incentive— come on, then. We cannot be late."

* * *

It was incredible— the shouts of support for the Grey Wardens rang out to the ceiling of the vaulted chamber, and still it was to end in blood. Bleeding idiot Fereldans… what good was a vote if everything was to be decided by a duel?

"—face me yourself, or do you have a champion?" It would have been rather ironic if he was chosen as the one to step forward, but he knew that was not to be. Nor would Sten, standing silent and menacing at his back, be called upon to feed his Asala.

One of the Wardens, Zevran was certain, would be facing the teyrn in combat in the very near future.

To her great credit, his willowy lady did not flinch in the face of such a hardened human warrior, even one who had been so recently engaged in furious ranting. Instead, Zevran felt his nerves begin to sing as her shoulders tightened and her narrow chin lifted.

"If Your Grace would face a mage in single combat, I would meet your challenge myself." Alistair's eyes flashed dangerously as Loghain's gaze flickered in his direction, but the teyrn's attention did not stray very long. With a slow nod, he motioned for his guards to disperse to the room's edges. The nobles on the ground floor began to scurry away at quite a pace, as well.

"Mages bleed well enough, I've found," he murmured, his tone not unkind but rather almost pensive. Then his voice rose again, echoing throughout the chamber. "Very well, Warden. It is you or me the men will follow. So, let us end this. Prepare yourself."

They could only take a moment, but Zevran felt surprisingly little disappointment when Keelin turned to Alistair rather than to him— this entire exchange was obviously steeped in deeper meaning for the Grey Wardens than simply a political power play. There was a powerful, significant look shared between compatriots, a supportive gripping of arms, and then Alistair retreated off, ruddy and stone-faced, out of what had very clearly become a duelling ring.

Zevran found himself lingering, forcing his disquiet to leech out of his expression just as his sweet girl's attention shifted. A mage in battle was a force to behold, _this_ mage perhaps especially, but there were always tactics involved that made such a thing possible. Here there would be no brawny warriors to keep the enemies out of range as Keelin focused her powers, and no devilishly handsome assassin to watch her back. Regardless of anything else, Zevran was very aware of the short, tragic relationship between sharp swords and soft robes.

Swallowing thickly and forcing an easy smile, he dipped into a bow before her, then pressed a very brief kiss to her knuckles. "Decency," he murmured, staring intently into her eyes. "Will get you killed. Fight hard, and fight dirty."

"I learned from the very best," she replied softly, squeezing his fingers where they still gripped her hand. "Now stop your fretting; you'll make me nervous."

Rather than deny her observation, Zevran chuckled and stepped back, releasing her. She would be the victor, he chanted silently as he strode over to stand near Alistair and Sten. She would win, or _he_ would die there with Loghain's blood hot on his blade, so truly there was little to worry about.

Now that the field was cleared, the combatants wasted no time before squaring off. Keeping a displeasing amount of his attention focused on Loghain's loyal troops stationed about he room, Zevran still noted every graceful step Keelin took as the two opponents observed each other.

When Loghain drew his sword, several of the nobility gasped. "What," Alistair growled almost inaudibly, but a quick glance over confirmed the man's stare was fixed on the duel. "Thought they were going to fight with pillows and harsh words, did they? Bloody nobles."

The dark anger radiating from the normally jovial, often-foolish man was somewhat surprising, but Zevran had no interest to spare. Instead, he thumbed the pommel of one of the daggers at his belt and watched Keelin draw her staff, with pale sparks already shimmering around its intricately carved dragonbone tip. Her expression was determined, flinty, and with the tendrils of magical power that had begun to snake over her skin she appeared nothing less than a merciless goddess of death. Still, there was a stone in his stomach sitting cold and heavy.

The teyrn made to strike first, of course. With a bellow that shook the very ceiling beams, sending motes of dust drifting slowly downwards, Loghain charged towards his petite opponent like an enraged bronto. There was a strange, ear-popping sound, sending a ripple of shock through the room yet again, and frigid magic blasted from her staff, hitting the teyrn square in the chest.

Loghain's stride faltered as the unnatural ice crawled swiftly through his muscles and deep into his bones— Zevran remembered the feeling, and was not surprised a heartbeat later when the frozen teyrn ground to a halt. There were no more than a half-dozen steps between the combatants, and Keelin took the opportunity to remedy that potentially lethal situation, dashing past Loghain and up towards the large dais. The hand not wrapped tightly around her staff was twitching quickly through complex arcane motions, and Zevran could feel the hairs on his arms begin to rise as the air grew thick with magic. Sten, despite his extraordinarily stoic bearing, shifted ever so slightly with something Zevran recognised as discomfort.

Faintly glowing symbols had appeared on the chamber floor, forming a barrier between the still-motionless Loghain and the grim-faced mage. The ice engulfing the teyrn had begun to crumble, allowing the man to begin moving, albeit sluggishly. There was a crunch as he turned, forcing his legs to shift, then a crackle as a ball of lightning crashed into his breastplate. Grunting in pain, Loghain rolled his shoulders and managed to keep his feet— relatively safe behind her wall of glyphs, Keelin reached into her belt pouch and took a small sip of lyrium potion.

Loghain had not become a general of renown and war hero by being stupid. Despite the frustration and disorientation that must have no doubt been clouding his mind after being frozen and brutally shocked within such a short span of time, he did not charge again. Instead, very cautiously, he approached the glowing glyphs— Keelin backed up a step, holding her staff at the ready, but Zevran could see that as useful as the boost to her mana might be, the potion had already darkened her eyes and likely set her heart pounding. Power versus control was a fine line his lady walked constantly.

It was truly only an instant of indecision, of consideration, before Loghain made his next move— ploughing through the magical barrier with barely a shudder and a slight dragging of his feet as the glyphs activated. Somehow the man managed to shrug off any truly debilitating effects, and Zevran watched the surprise bloom across Keelin's face as the intricate spell she was preparing fizzled and her delicate frame was thrown back by one great smash of the teyrn's shield.

Zevran was barely aware he had tried to move forward until he realised he was being held in place. Sten's huge hand was as firm as a silverite shackle on the back of his neck, leashing him and his foolish impulse, and it took every ounce of sense left in his head not to try and gut the blighted qunari behemoth.

Keelin was down but conscious, scrambling across the flagstone towards the staff that had been torn from her hands by the strength of Loghain's attack. Blood was dark and copious running over her chin, pouring from what looked to be a broken nose and a badly split lip, and the teyrn was wasting no time in pressing his advantage.

The staff had rolled too far, and Loghain was bearing down too quickly— if this was to be the end, Zevran refused to baulk. He had looked away from Rinna, as her sharp eyes dimmed and her life leeched away, and the memory still made him burn with his own cowardice. If he were going to lose this woman, he would remember every moment of agony until he drew his last breath.

Loghain's foot tramped hard on her calf, pinning her in place as she cried out in pain, and his sword was sweeping downwards, set to cleave soft flesh from her ribs to her hip. With a violent, desperate twist she was on her back, both hands outstretched, and lightning crackled through the air again, blinding and overwhelming the teyrn long enough for Keelin to kick herself free. Loghain was shaking his head madly as the arcane lightning scorched welts across his skin, but he was not incapacitated, and Keelin regained her staff just in time to parry another swift, deadly slash.

Her form was tighter, more precise than it had been when she'd first swung a blade with her new powers, months before in the Brecilian forest. Still, she was no physical match for a warrior of swords and shields, especially wielding only her staff, and Loghain's brutal attacks were barely held back by her awkward deflections. She was backing up, sidestepping and darting around the teyrn's striking field like a frightened finch, but coupled with the blasts of spellpower she was firing into the fray at every opportunity, it seemed to be working. It was, at the very least, keeping her alive and forcing a strained grimace onto Loghain's face.

At last she managed to gain some breathing room, a few arms' lengths of space between them as Loghain snarled and slashed at empty air. That last hex had managed to confuse him, thank the Maker, and Keelin swung her staff back into an offensive stance. There was a flash of deep purple light, and Loghain gasped and staggered, clutching at his chest as if he were suffering some kind of fit. Many of the nobles would be confused, no doubt, but the battle had brought the pair close enough that Zevran could see the broken knot in his lady's nose begin to straighten and some of the swelling in her jaw begin to fade even as all colour leeched from Loghain's face.

"You… do you yield," Keelin rasped, her voice so low and rough that he barely recognised it. "Do you… I will drain you dead, Loghain."

He grunted, swinging his sword ineffectually towards her, and Keelin blasted him back with a bolt of energy. Finally, blessedly, the teyrn was forced to his knees, and the clatter of his sword dropping from his hand was deafening. His shield dropped next, and the teyrn was wracked with a fit of coughing, bracing one arm on the chamber's floor. When he composed himself, straightening but not standing, his lips were splattered with blood.

"Yield," he rumbled quietly, eyes tightly shut, then he lifted his head and regarded Keelin with a peculiar look of acceptance softening his stark features. "I underestimated you, Warden. I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war." Pulling a deep breath through his nose, the corner of Loghain's mouth twitched up ever so slightly. "I was wrong. There's a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died. I yield."

Keelin was panting, a sheen of sweat damp on her brow, and Zevran felt his knees turn momentarily to water. It was over— she had beaten the teyrn in single combat. She was alive.

"Andraste's blood," she swore under her breath, wiping the back of her hand across her chin and wincing as the move pulled at her torn lip. Her knuckles were white and tense where they gripped her staff, and Zevran recognised the nauseous pallor crawling up over her flushed cheeks. The room was holding its collective breath, and it seemed Keelin had not prepared herself for the possibility of deciding the ultimate fate of the teyrn outside the heat of battle. "I— I accept your surrender."

"_What?_" Alistair's tone was shocked, _furious_, and Zevran felt a flash of irritation when Sten did not grab the human to stop him from interfering. "I didn't just hear you say that. You're going to just let him live? After everything he's done?" With one more threatening step towards the defeated teyrn, Alistair slashed his hand through the air in a morbid imitation of the justice he was touting. "Kill him, already!"

Keelin's face tightened; she was leaning exhaustedly on her staff even as she tried to maintain a strong posture, and Anora was clearly about to plead for her father's life when Riordan appeared out of the murmuring crowd.

"Wait," the man called, stepping carefully through the throng of nobility and drawing attention like a naked milkmaid in the middle of a chantry. "There is another option." Alistair's expression darkened thunderously, but Riordan paid the livid man absolutely no heed. "The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."

Choking out a strange, scandalized noise, Alistair turned to Keelin, appalled. This was… unexpected, to say the very least, and Zevran shrugged himself free of Sten's grip as his lady began to flounder.

"The Joining?" Keelin shook her head, peering at the Senior Warden as if he'd grown wings and declared himself a high dragon. "How— For what purpose? He is a man of great skill, certainly, but he is hardly loyal to us."

"What does loyalty matter? We are what we are." Riordan crossed his arms loosely, seemingly unperturbed by the mob of nobles raptly watching his every move. Somehow, Zevran did not foresee a pleasant end to this very public discussion. "The Joining binds us to the darkspawn. You know this. If you were to forswear your oath and flee today, you'd find yourself in the Deep Roads or the Blight-lands, given time. You'd seek them out, or they'd seek you."

"The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?" Anora had edged slightly closer to her fallen father since Riordan's interruption, and Zevran did not miss the way her fingers stretched almost imperceptibly in Loghain's direction. He also felt a twinge of suspicion at this cunning queen's knowledge of supposedly secret rituals. "If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?"

"Absolutely not!" Despite his obvious anger, Alistair made no move towards his own blade. For that, at least, they could all be grateful. It was very clear that the situation would degrade to a brawl in a moment if the teyrn was killed on any order but Keelin's. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?"

"Alistair," Keelin murmured, just enough to bring the man's ranting to at least an intermission. Then, with stiffness in her spine that sent warnings ringing through Zevran's mind, she caught and held Alistair's gaze in complete silence. Too long, truly— it was a terrible gamble to hesitate like this.

Not for the first time, Zevran was completely at a loss. He had no idea what his lady might decide, but he was completely certain any decision would weigh heavily upon her narrow shoulders. He also realised, with a sickening kind of acceptance, that he would have gladly taken her inevitable grief upon himself if it were at all possible to do so.

The aloof, self-interested, _intelligent_ man he used to be was well and truly dead, it seemed.

Finally, blessedly, she squeezed her empty hand into a tight fist and looked up to address the restless crowd. "No," she said firmly, without a quaver but with an unanticipated tone of regret. "No. Loghain deserves to die for his crimes."

There were few in the room who looked entirely pleased at the pronouncement, Zevran noted with uneasiness. Anora, unsurprisingly, did not react well to it either.

Antivan Crows were blades at their most basic function, and blades did not question what manner of flesh they cut. Questions were dangerous, sympathy was a terrible liability, and hesitation meant death. Despite a few painful _learning experiences_, Zevran had been a very good Crow for most of his life. Simply put, this was not the first time he had been privy to these final moments. Begging, tears, pleas for mercy… they had washed over him like the lapping of a gentle surf, and had been just as easily ignored.

Occasionally, he had felt a twinge of regret, but indulging in such fancy was dangerously foolish at best. The masters could smell weakness like blood in the water, and had always excised it swiftly and cruelly.

These final moments between father and daughter evoked a vaguely familiar pang in his chest. He hardly wished to imagine the agony it was stirring up in his beloved Keelin; her face was turned away from him, and it was a selfish relief. He had no idea what manner of comfort he could have offered, had she chosen to catch his eye.

There was a large, ceremonial looking sword brought forward, likely kept for this sort of purpose, but Keelin looked at blade with a deep frown. "No, I am no warrior. If it is permissible to the Landsmeet, I will use magic. The... results will be the same."

There was a great ripple of disquiet, but after a moment's hesitation, Eamon spoke up. "These delays are unseemly and coarse. Carry out your sentence as you see fit, Warden, that this Landsmeet may move forward."

"I agree," Loghain murmured, perhaps more to himself than the assemblage, and Keelin moved towards his kneeling form. Dropping to her own knees less than an arm's length from the teyrn, with her staff planted firmly beside her, his lady was ashen.

"This won't hurt." Her voice was incredibly soft, her eyes were glittering with wetness, and Zevran felt nausea well up in his gut. Loghain, for his part, nodded mutely and bowed his head. There was a collective intake of breath when one narrow, delicate hand reached out to touch the teyrn's cheek, but then the man was crumbling, falling limp so anticlimactically that it took a moment for the crowd to realise what had occurred.

Keelin caught him in an awkward embrace, broad shoulders and heavy armour pushing the air audibly from her lungs, and lowered the body almost reverently to rest on the carpet even as her hand darted up to close glassy, staring eyes. It was… _over_, but it was only Anora's reedy cry that managed to break the haze of disbelief.

Propriety could go _hang_. Zevran was at his lady's side in a heartbeat, drawing her up and away from the teyrn's body as gently and quickly as he could. She was trembling, gaze fixed on the daughter weeping quietly over her lifeless father, and Zevran could scarcely remember hating Alistair—hating _humans_— more violently in his entire life.

But of course it _wasn't_ over, and Eamon was chomping at the bit to continue this foul business.

"Forgive me, Arl Eamon," Keelin said eventually, after some discussion for which Zevran had no time and no attention. She was still holding his hand, their fingers twined together, and being a tether to her composure wasn't the most comfortable occupation Zevran had ever undertaken. It was, however, one of the most important. "But Grey Wardens are not sovereigns. You make this my choice? Then it is Anora. Anora will be Queen."

There was commotion, confusion, and more ceremony, but Zevran dismissed it all. For all the blustering Eamon had laid upon them, and the prey-panicked look in Alistair's eyes every time the arl approached him for the past months, this was… somewhat unexpected. It would have been strategically sound to place a Warden in such a position of power, considering the tenuous tolerance the Order currently suffered within Ferelden. Alistair was not politically skilled, but a puppet king was not an unfamiliar concept to these people, surely.

Rubbing his thumb gently over Keelin's knuckles, Zevran allowed his muscles to relax minutely as the Landsmeet was dismissed in a rush of patriotism and huzzahs all around. There was still so much to do, but one of the greatest threats to their success had been dealt with, at least. It was somewhat comforting to imagine their steps were now free of Loghain's far-reaching menace, but it was tempered by the haunted look lingering in Keelin's expression.

"Come," he murmured against her ear, once Anora's speechmaking had faded and the nobility had begun milling about. "They can spare their General for a while."

She did not attempt to argue, which was both a blessing and a worry. Zevran could see Riordan and Alistair approaching through the throng, expressions twisted up in concern or query, but he was in absolutely no mood for these Wardens. It was not his most discreet decision, but guiding Keelin towards a side exit with an arm looped around her shoulder while flashing the pair of them a rude gesture _felt_ good, damn it.

He wasn't about to drag her bodily, so it was hardly surprising when they were overtaken just outside the Landsmeet chamber. Riordan was frowning, Alistair was gaping slightly, and Zevran could feel the edge of his own patience quite keenly.

"From what I had heard of you," Riordan began, folding his arms across his chest. "I did not expect you to waste such a valuable resource. What's done is done, I suppose."

Whether the man was referring to Loghain or the chance to put a Warden on the throne was of little consequence. Alistair still squawked indignantly, cheeks flaming with ire, and Keelin still stepped forward with a painfully stony, defiant stare.

"Alistair is a _valuable resource _as our brother," she snapped, and the air grew dangerously still around her. "And Loghain was a madman. Do not think to lecture me on waste after the swathes of dead he left behind him."

Zevran's palms were itching, a feeling made worse as Riordan's eyes narrowed, but the Senior Warden seemed prepared to let the matter drop for the moment. "Regardless," he said, shrugging with forced neutrality. "I will meet with the Queen to discuss our next move. You should gather your companions and wait for word."

The man excused himself with a shallow dip of his shoulders and without waiting for response, leaving them with Alistair, and the Sten, who had just made his own escape from the Landsmeet chamber. Zevran had little doubt the qunari had found the crowd a bit less pressing than they had.

"Keelin," Alistair said suddenly, his voice rough and low pitched. "I don't… Holy Maker, Keelin, _thank_ you—"

"Do _not_." The eerie stillness expanded, like a creeping chill, and Zevran felt the hairs on his arms rise to attention once more. Like a cornered predator, Keelin was tensed in warning, and it was more than a little alarming. "Don't you _dare_ thank me. _Never_."

Zevran recognised the manic lilt escalating with every word she spoke, and was unwilling to linger amongst others as his lover plunged headlong into her breakdown. Tightening his grip on her shoulder, he held one quieting hand in Alistair's direction before the shock and hurt blooming across the man's features could develop further.

"Go find the others," he said flatly, sparing the Sten a hard glance as well. "We will be along."

Truly, qunari directness was sometimes a blessing. In a way that made a whisper of gratification curl through him, Zevran watched as the giant grabbed Alistair by the back of the neck, jerking him away without further discussion. Alistair struggled, but it was half-hearted at best— Keelin's harsh reaction had brought him up short, it seemed.

Swallowing his own questions, Zevran leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss against her temple, ignoring the stab of worry that struck him when she flinched. "Come, _mi amora_," he said again, guiding her in the opposite direction their companions were headed. There would be an empty room of some sort close by, more than likely, or he and a strategically flashed dagger would provide them with one. She followed in step beside him, mute and unresisting.

* * *

_AN: Hello! Well, that's the Landsmeet unpleasantness sorted, for the most part; I am utterly mortified I left this hanging so long. My hiatus was unplanned and unfortunate, and I must apologise. I'll try my damnedest to have the next bit up soon... perhaps a couple of weeks. _


	9. Chapter 9

Down a corridor, bypassing nobles and servants with a briskness that was nearly violent, Zevran found precisely what he was looking for. A small room, for storage it seemed like, and he herded Keelin inside before jamming the door behind them with a dagger thrust hard between the latch and the frame. It wouldn't stop someone very determined from forcing entrance, but your average domestic would be stymied.

She let her staff fall away with a clatter and sat heavily on a dusty wooden trunk, elbows on her knees and hands clenched. A large wardrobe butted against the wall along with several boxes and other items made for a bit of a tight squeeze, but Zevran was nothing if not flexible. Kicking a box aside, heedless of the ominous crunch his action caused, he knelt at her feet.

"Breathe, my sweet girl," he said softly, and reached out to stroke her forearms with his bare hands. Her skin was awash with gooseflesh, as if chilled to the bone. "Please, deep breaths."

Her eyes were fixed on some point far beyond him, her pupils wide and unfocused, but she did attempt to inhale deeply through her still-swollen nose. The breath caught in a weak sob, and it was pure instinct and the Maker's own luck that Zevran managed to grab a rather beautiful vase for Keelin to empty her stomach into, rather than all over their tiny hiding place.

She was retching painfully, her entire body wracked in a way that made his muscles ache to see it. Keeping one hand in a firm grip on the vase, Zevran pushed loose tendrils of hair away from her damp brow. When her vomiting faded into weakening dry heaves, he set the vase aside and gently wiped the foulness from her bruised face, ignoring embarrassed noises she made at his tending. A mix of blood, bile, and breakfast was hardly the most disgusting thing he'd ever had on his hands, after all.

"Hush,_ mi amora_." There was a pile of slightly musty linens nearby, and he rubbed the mess away absently. "Stop your fussing."

Keeping his movements slow and measured, he eased up to perch beside her on the trunk and pulled her nearly limp body into a loose embrace. The room smelled awful, like sweat, fear, and sick, and that familiar stench was far from comforting. It was, however, easily disregarded.

Her forehead was clammy against the side of his neck, her heartbeat quick and uneven, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "What I… it was monstrous."

He made no attempt to correct her, though _monstrous_ was not a term he would apply to the woman in his arms. Perhaps he had met too many monsters.

"I should not feel such pain for him," she continued brokenly, and he heard tears in her words before he felt their heat on his skin. "But his eyes, Zevran… I can't… He had surrendered, wholly, and I _killed_ him—"

"I am sorry," he murmured, _uselessly_, but what else could he say? She was weeping against his chest, clinging to him, and Zevran shoved his own burgeoning panic aside. He had agreed to this, to be needed and depended upon, and he would force himself to be good enough for her even when it terrified him.

* * *

It helped that Alistair was skittering about like a beaten dog. Had he attempted to approach Keelin again, Zevran might have buried a knife in his throat, and that would have simply complicated things further.

They were off to Redcliffe, or so it appeared, while his dear lady was quietly struggling against her shattered composure. Exchanging a comfortable bed and convenient hearth for bedroll and drafty tent was less than ideal, but perhaps escaping Denerim for a time would be beneficial. He understood the burning need for whatever temporary comfort fleeing could bring; running from the ghosts of the past was something of a speciality of his.

Trudging down muddy autumn roads with the rest of their moody, motley band, Zevran considered the first time he had killed a defenceless opponent. He'd been… eight years old, if he recalled correctly, or perhaps nine. His earliest months within the House of Crows blurred together rather hazy and red, but he vividly recalled the feel of hot blood gushing all over his small hands.

He hadn't known so at the time, of course, but the Crows always bought an excess of urchins. Some, those with beauty, strength, or obviously malleable minds, were chosen as steel to be forged into blades, while others were chosen as whetstones. Zevran had begun to be truly honed on one of those latter children, a dark-eyed girl whose name he'd long ago forgotten.

The entire point of his unpleasant musing was an attempt to recapture the grief he must have experienced at that time, virginal as he was in such things, but thus far he remembered nothing except the girl's eyes, wide and afraid, and the feel of his master's belt flaying his back for hesitating before he slit her throat.

All he wanted was to offer some comfort his lover, some true empathy or the correct words; he was willing to revisit past trauma if it could possibly help, but such things seemed so distant. Digging back through much of his training and trying to find the emotions beyond the lessons, Zevran could feel nothing but numbness. It was frustrating, though an odd kind of relief as well.

"You are very far away, Zevran." Shaking the cobwebs of memory away, he glanced at the bard who had suddenly taken up residence near his elbow. It was where Keelin would be were she not lagging behind speaking with Wynne, but the mages were engrossed in some talk of entropy, and Zevran was loath to disturb whatever diversion his lady had found.

Leliana's expression was gently concerned, and the pull of deeply ingrained instincts forced a lazy smirk onto his face in response. "Warm and exotic climes, my dear," he drawled playfully. "With beating sun and far less clothing. Shall I describe it to you?"

His arch manner earned a small frown, but did not afford him a reprieve. Instead, Leliana stepped marginally closer and lowered her voice to a perfect murmur— the sound of one who knows true quiet and how to achieve it.

"You do not have to be everything for her." He tensed, but the precarious nature of his situation meant he could not afford to blindly dismiss advice, even if it was uninvited. When she was not rejected outright, Leliana seemed to take the hint to continue. "I think it would be unwise for you to try, actually. Allow her friends their parts in this, and be there for her as you are— as she _chose_ you— and she will overcome this ugliness much more smoothly."

The idea that he had become so transparent was more than a little irksome. Had it been any of the others besides his fellow rogue peering so sharply and so accurately into his dilemma, Zevran would have been horrified. He was somewhat put out by Leliana's meddling, but it was bearable at least. Over the years, he had known many individuals with bardic training, and he knew better than to underestimate this woman's skill.

Still, he was not so enthused by the advice that he would encourage it, or indeed suffer it for long. "I will take it under advisement," he said blandly, then turned his attention to the rest of their party. "Oghren! I think I have a joke for you, my fine dwarven friend."

* * *

Eamon had fled to Redcliffe before them, as though the horde was already on his heels— if the rumours were true, losing the chance to put his former ward on the throne had chafed the arl rather badly. It was difficult for Zevran to imagine how he could care less, but such a fit of pique did make for a miserable journey of slogging through roads already stomped to mire by Eamon's contingent of guards.

Zevran first arrived in Ferelden at the beginning of what passed for summer among these rough southern folk. He'd survived one incredibly soggy autumn already, but he had forgotten what a unique blend of sensations such a season could produce. It was drizzling with a hellish, slushy rain, and one idiotic misstep over the crest of a hill had ended with mud and corruption seeping up under his greaves. His lips were chapped and his nose would not stop dripping from the bitter wind that was gusting up from the Southron Hills, and there was a swamp congealed in his boots.

Stopping for the night was a blessing. One more sickening _squelch_, and he might have done something rash.

"Ah, _damn_ you, you bleeding, poxy— _brasca!_" He yanked harshly at the boot that was suctioned firmly onto his foot, trying to keep his cursing to a dull snarl. He would be no fit dining companion until he'd changed his socks, and thank the Maker he'd had the presence of mind to retreat to his tent before making a fool of himself. Bested by footwear, by Andraste's blessed _blood_—

The tent flap opened unexpectedly, informing him precisely how distracted he had allowed himself to become, and Keelin slipped inside with a small frown tugging at her lips.

"You're going to get mud all over the bedrolls," she said, almost scolding, and he bit his tongue. They were all tense, but he refused to snap at her.

Frown deepening just slightly when it became clear he was not about to respond, his lady crawled further inside and flopped down beside his knees. Given that he had been a hairsbreadth away from grabbing a dagger and slicing himself free of the fine Antivan leather, he did not protest when she swatted his hands aside and began her own attempt.

It took a few moments, a bit of wriggling, and a squawk when she twisted his ankle uncomfortably, but then he found himself one boot shy quicker than he'd imagined. When she peeled his sock away, leaving him with toes wiggling bare and damp, Zevran finally found his mind again in the haze of frustration that had been growing all day.

"Thank you," he said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingers along the line of her jaw, then up to tame the wisps of cornsilk hair slicked to her forehead by rain. "You are a darling woman, Keelin."

His shift in mood surprised her, he could tell, but he thought it might please her also. She paused her attentions on his remaining boot, turning her head just slightly into his touch, and there was a flicker of warmth in the sideways gaze with which he was favoured. Then, just as quickly, she was back to liberating his heel.

The second boot pulled free soon after, with his sock following, and his lover did not resist the gentle pressure of his hand drawing her closer. Leaning forward, he pressed a tender kiss against her mouth, then another on the blotchy redness such a foul day on the road had brought to her cheek. His hand had fallen to the side of her neck, and he smiled slightly at the feel of her small shudder and the skip in her heartbeat.

"Sweet man," she whispered, breath warm on his skin, then slowly pulled away. "Leliana's made supper."

"There is hope, then," he replied with a smirk, the reached around to dig dry socks from his pack. He'd filched an old, rough pair of boots from the communal crate of spare goods Feddic toted about for them, and it hardly mattered that they were too large and nearly worn through at the toes. They were dry and at hand, and that was more than good enough. "Shall we, _mi amora_?"

* * *

Leliana's suggestion seemed to hold some sense, after all, which was fortuitous and a little humbling. Zevran reminded himself that while his charm was finely sharpened, his knowledge of significant relationships was still developing. He would learn.

Light spices and delicately cooked vegetables filled his stomach comfortably, the rain had stopped for the moment, and Keelin was smiling. It was, thus far, a much better evening than he had expected.

"—and that should do it," his lady announced, sounding rather satisfied with herself as the final cluster of crystals slotted into place with a pulse of magic. The hulk of a golem, who had deigned to lumber near the fire and all the squishy company that entailed, made a deep grinding sound Zevran thought might be its closest equivalent to flexing muscle. Brilliant blue light cast a strange hue over Keelin's skin as she reached up to pat Shale's massive chest. "Feel better?"

"Much." There was more grinding, and his slight, squishy lover took the opportunity to step back. "My thanks, Grey Warden. It is not an entirely dreadful creature, for a mage."

Wynne tutted softly, but did not look up from mending one of the shirts she'd been patching since finishing her meal. Most members of their group were engaged in some tedious yet necessary task or another; it felt as though finding such odd jobs to fill the dangerously quiet, thoughtful times would be the order of the day until this archdemon business was sorted. Zevran certainly had no ardent need to sit and ponder the imminent menace of a slavering horde of darkspawn, and killing a dragon (or near enough, in the case of Flemeth) once in his life was more than sufficient, thank you very much.

So instead he sat too near the crackling fire, ignoring the sweat just beginning to pop on his brow, and carefully stirred the small iron pot of what would soon become some very potent poison. It was a recipe he'd picked up somewhere years before, and it was finicky enough to take a fair portion of his attention, which was precisely what he'd planned. He could not allow himself to agonise, if he was to give Leliana's suggestion any chance at all.

Shale rumbled back to its usual spot, limbs glowing brighter than before as night continued to creep in around the edges of their camp. Leaning back from the pot for the moment, Zevran palmed his knife and scraped up more mashed deathroot from the small slab of stone he'd been using as a cutting board. Adding the dark paste to the bubbling mixture, he wiped his hands on the grass and sat back to wait for it to thicken, risking a few moments to watch his lover without distraction.

She was wrapped in one of Leliana's shawls, a simple thing of soft wool with a hint of dark embroidery around the edges, and now that her golem maintenance was finished, she bent to refill her teacup. Her eyes betrayed a mind travelling somewhere distant, her small smile dimmed with whatever thoughts were drawing her away, and Zevran did nothing to hide his own frown.

Alistair was still sulking, but the cold, bitter tension between the Wardens had faded to a mild discomfort. It was a thing of some concern, simply because Zevran knew his lady considered her fellow Warden a dear friend, but it had been _Zevran_ who held her close and watched her battle worsening nightmares every night since she'd stopped Loghain's heart in his chest. She insisted her troubled sleep was simply further proof the archdemon was rallying an offensive, but Zevran was unconvinced that was the whole of it.

They could have tossed Loghain in the dungeons to wait for one of those proper public executions nobility so often revelled in, with a proper executioner. Gather crowds of peasants to witness justice being served, and to remind them precisely what awaited those who stepped out of line. They might have even poured darkspawn blood down the teyrn's throat and watched him choke to death, for Riordan's suggestion was not an utterly terrible one given the average rate of survival for potential Wardens…

Still rather unfocused, Keelin wandered over in his direction, and Zevran snatched a few empty flasks off of the half-rotted deadfall he'd claimed as a makeshift table, moving them out of her way before she ended up with a bottom full of broken glass. She sat on the mossy trunk, both hands wrapped around the pale wood of her teacup, and Zevran imagined he could make out a hint of violets through the pungent odour of his poison. It evoked extraordinarily pleasant memories of the taste of violet and honey on her tongue, and despite his worry, Zevran found himself nudging her leg with his shoulder. She glanced down at him, looking almost startled as if shaking off a dream, then returned the smile he offered.

"Hello," she said softly, and the brief kiss he pressed against her knee earned him a sweet giggle.

"_Bonita_," he replied, mouth curling into an expression decidedly less chaste than the kiss. "May I have a taste?"

As he'd hoped, a lovely flush of colour washed over her cheeks, but before the spark that lit her eyes could burn through his self-control, Zevran nodded towards her tea. "I thirst, my dear, but until I properly wash my hands… if you don't mind, of course."

Laughing again, the sound ringing warm with indulgence, his lady carefully brought her cup to his lips. The tea was hot, but not unbearably so, and achingly familiar as the flavour washed over his senses. He swallowed, allowing his eyes to drift closed, then hummed contentedly as a thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth.

Regardless of the very promising path he was now treading, there was still a portion of his mind concerned with the poison brewing nearby. It was with great reluctance that Zevran leaned back from his beautifully blushing lover, shifting around to give the pot a slow stir and pull it away from the coals to cool. A glance confirmed that Keelin was watching him rather intently, sipping her tea and looking for all the world like a treat he would very much enjoy unwrapping.

_Be there for her as you are_. He could certainly try.

* * *

It had been a challenge, but he'd managed not to scald his fingers or otherwise incapacitate himself while rushing through the last few steps of his batch of poison. The deadly concoction was bottled and safely sealed, _finally_, his hands were tingling from their vigorous scrubbing in cold pond water, and Keelin was expecting him in their tent.

"I'm going to bed," she'd whispered sometime earlier, her breath warm against his ear just as he'd finished adding a dram of corrupter to the thickened mix. "I'll be waiting up."

The faint light of a spell wisp glowing through canvas was a very good sign, and Zevran made no attempt to disguise the haste in his step. He crawled inside, shoving his pack into one corner, and his anticipation flared at the sight of long bare legs and a welcoming smile.

"Hello, _cariño_," he said, quickly unbuckling his baldric and belt and tossing them aside. Keelin was already down to the last layer of her robes, lying across their bedrolls with one knee bent and a book propped open against her raised thigh. Even in the peculiar glow of the wisp, the view he was afforded by that pose was… delicious.

She seemed content to watch him shed his leathers like a madman, which was entirely acceptable given his current frame of mind. The feel of her slender hands tugging him free of his clothes and armour was usually quite inspiring, but this time a bit of his own practiced speed was preferable. Leaving his leggings loosened but in place, Zevran shucked his shirt and slithered up to kneel beside her calves, loosely mirroring her earlier assistance with his boots.

When he kissed her knee again, this time without the thin barrier of stockings keeping him from the feel of her skin, his darling girl made a thrilling, purring sound from deep in her throat. Clean hands meant freedom to touch, and he was eager to indulge— continuing slow, light kisses along her leg, he slid the pads of his fingers over the velvety softness of her inner thigh, teasing under the hem of her skirt.

Her breathing was quickening, her chest shuddering temptingly under the fabric of her shift, and the shadows began to flicker as the wisp bobbed madly. Her hand on his stomach felt like lightning, skating up along his ribs, and if this was to be his part in banishing the grief from her eyes, he supposed would simply have to endure.

"Zevran," she breathed out in the rapidly warming air of their tent, voice soft and quivering. It was a very lovely sound. "Mmm, may I have a taste?"

His chuckle bubbled up almost unexpectedly, but then he thought he might be growing accustomed to the way she drew such joy from him. He had enjoyed the benefits of adventurous lovers in the past, affectionate ones, the thrilling and the sweet, occasionally the peerless, but this woman was something different. Something altogether magnificent.

He leaned forward, propping himself up over her prone form until he could nuzzle her jaw, moving slowly towards her lips. He did not remove his hand from its leisurely, tortuous journey towards his final prize, revelling in the rhythmic twitching of her hips as she sought his touch. "As you wish," he murmured, arching into the bite of her short nails scratching along his bare back. "Whatever you wish, _mi amora_."

* * *

She did not wish to sleep, despite some of his very best efforts to exhaust her. Having been subjected to the aftermath of her recent, hellish nightmares, however, Zevran could scarcely fault her.

"You go ahead," she insisted again, tracing invisible patterns along his chest with one delicate finger. The same finger had mapped his tattoos earlier, beginning with the lines on his face, then low on his spine, his hip… A wet, naughty little tongue had followed, and Zevran felt a warm curl of renewed interest winding through him at the memory. "Please? Sleep, dear man."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. Sleep, while she lay silently with only her dark thoughts and regrets for company? Hardly.

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Zevran shifted until her head could loll more comfortably against his shoulder. "I'm told I'm a terrible conversationalist while sleeping," he said, settling in under their blankets as the cosy atmosphere of their lovemaking gave way to cooling sweat and the chill of the night. "And some filthy slanderer has been spreading a rumour that I _drool_. I simply won't risk it."

That earned him an amused glance and a tweak to his nipple, but it was clear his lady was not hinting for further play. Abandoning her patterns, Keelin wrapped her arm firmly across his chest as if he were a very large child's toy, resting her chin over his heart and looking up into his face.

"It's only a little drool, usually." He mock-scowled at her through the darkness, the wisp long ago extinguished, and was rewarded with a peck of a kiss against his collarbone. "Less than the dog, at least."

There were jibes about her delectable cruelty caught on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. He had no idea how such banter would be received, given her current temper, and it was certainly not his intention to drive her back into her melancholy after having worked so hard to allow her at least a short while to forget. Instead, he kept silent, stroking her silky hair and listening closely as her breathing began to slow, drifting little by little into slumber despite her protests.

Then, when he was almost sure sleep had taken her, her muffled words startled him nearly enough to jump. "What does _cariño _mean?"

His throat tensed, the answer lodged firmly and unpleasantly somewhere in his chest. There were some rather benign if mawkish things he called her in Antivan, certainly, but the thought of a dangerous, thus-far unspoken question immediately stole his voice.

_And what about _mi amora_, Zevran? You've called me that quite often, recently._

He did. He had said those words more often to her in the past few weeks than he had likely ever spoken them before. It was simply so much easier to say them when she was ignorant of their true meaning... he still wasn't entirely certain of the meaning himself, Maker save him.

He knew how he felt, theoretically. It was more than he'd ever known one _could_ feel; certainly more than was wise or healthy. It burned in his blood, under his skin... to put words to it... _brasca_. He was such an _idiot_.

"Zevran?" Her tongue was thick with weariness, but he still heard an edge of worry creep in. He had been silent too long.

Very careful to keep his discomfort hidden by a front of bleary consideration, Zevran braced himself for whatever might follow. "Hm? Ah, well, the closest in the Common Tongue would be... sweetheart, I suppose. Just a term of affection, my dear."

"Sweetheart." Had she not been lying on his chest, he might have held his breath. "Hm. I rather like that." If asked, he would blame the flutter of his heart on the gentle kiss she brushed against his neck. "_Cariño. _Thank you, Zev."

Humming wordless acknowledgement, he silently prayed that would be the end of it until he could gather himself. He wasn't fool enough to think such specific, powerful _feelings_ would never be inquired about, but he needed a bit more time to figure out what his answer was going to be. Of course, luck chose that moment to abandon him, and his ever-curious lover was far from finished.

"What's _bonita_, then? There's something lovely in your eyes when you call me that."

Despite the tension, made all the worse by his attempts to hide it, Zevran felt his mouth twitch up in a small smile. There certainly was something lovely before his eyes...

"Pretty," he replied, quicker this time, and injected a yawn at the end for good measure. "Lovely. Beautiful. All those things."

She kissed him again, this time on the mouth, and it was deeper than he expected. He could taste the barest hint of honey, the familiar sweetness of _her_, and his own flavour as well. The combination was heady, addictive, and if the tingle down his spine were any indication, their night may not have wound down completely. Her leg snuck across his hips, her hand pulling his shoulder for leverage, and the feel of her weight settling over him, the heat and the wetness pressed against—

No, definitely not wound down just yet.

He broke the kiss to groan, shifting up against her infernal teasing, and her dark chuckle against his ear did terrible, wonderful things to him. Sliding his hands firmly up her ribs to cup the breasts brushing against his own chest, Zevran felt her echoing, broken groan wash over him like a caress.

"_Cariño_," she murmured, fingers catching in the snarls their previous lovemaking had left in his hair. It was an incredible word from her lips, pitched low with pleasure, and his hips bucked up without thought, seeking. "You— you think I'm all those things?"

When she reached back, taking him in hand, he sucked in a short, desperate breath. By now, she knew his rhythms very well; it would not be long at all before he was ready to go again, and that was a glorious thought.

"_More—_" It wasn't precisely begging if he was answering her question, but either way, the sentiment was the same. "Even more. _Bonita_, _perfecta_, ah—" He bit off the most dangerous word at the first trace of its sound, not _quite_ a complete moron even with his attention so occupied. Now that she had him awake, aware, and more than willing, his lover seemed determined to set a snail's pace, but Zevran was content to lie back and enjoy the ride if it meant distracting her.

"_Perfecta?_" Blinking up into the shadow, he swore he could see her teeth flashing, and he could certainly hear the breathless grin in her voice. "I think I can guess at that one. Flatterer."

"_Diosa_," he forced through his own gritted teeth, every muscle tightening as she sunk so very gradually down upon him. He was still especially sensitive, and his palms were itching to grip her hips, but that was not the game. "A goddess. My darling girl."

"That last one—" Her fingers were on his lips, his tongue and teeth greeting them. "You've called me that for so long. Darling." He nipped the base of her thumb, and was rewarded as she began an unhurried, maddening rocking. "Yours. _My_ Zevran."

He should have been prepared when she braced her hand on his chest, but _that— __**my**__ Zevran— _well, he was preoccupied by the heat that bloomed fiery and brutal, deep in his core. Then, suddenly, there was nothing unhurried or teasing, but there was a woman slamming hard against him, squeezing tight around him, and everything blurred somewhat from there.

Later, perhaps closer to dawn than he might have liked, given that Keelin had not yet slept, Zevran found himself utterly sated and perhaps a little sore.

"You minx," he purred, boneless and warm with his lover pressed close beside him once again. "I feel so magnificently _used_."

"Shhh…" She patted his cheek limply, exhaustion overtaking her at long last. "Sleep now."

He'd done it, miraculously, and he still had a few hours before she awoke to sort out an answer that made at least some sense. _What about __**mi amora**__, Zevran?_

Love. He silently weighed the word in his mouth, considering—

"Hmp..." Keelin snuffled, and he watched her face turn up towards his with a strange dread. "Forgot. One more."

_Damn, damn, __**damn**__. Maker __**no,**__ not yet—_

She stretched, nuzzling the crook of his neck. "Hmm. What does _rinna _mean?"

* * *

_AN: I don't usually do the cliffhanger thing. I made an exception just for __**you**__. :D_

_My sincere thanks for reading, as always. With any luck, I'll have the next bit up soon. _


	10. Chapter 10

The world narrowed; he was blind to all but the shadowed shape of the woman lying next to him. Had she— surely not—

He must have misheard her. He _must_ have.

The lie sounded so hollow, buffeting about in his head. His heartbeat was thunderous.

"What?" He tried belatedly to stop the word before it croaked out of his throat, but it was far too late. There had been a chance of ignoring the question, feigning sleep, _anything_, but he heard the clear panic lacing his tone. No doubt Keelin had as well.

"Zev?" Of course, she sounded concerned. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back a rush of sour bile. "Is something— what's wrong?"

Where to begin? There was suddenly so much, so very wrong, and he was drowning in it. He scrambled for purchase, for _anything_ to pull him from this maelstrom, and then there was a hand on his cheek, startling, and the unexpected light of a very small wisp making him blink owlishly.

_Keelin_.

"Andraste's grace, Zevran," she said urgently, peering at him with wide, nervous eyes. "What is it? Breathe, _please_."

Instincts, still new and raw, screamed at him— _do not frighten her, you cowardly son of a __**whore**_— and he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. She was a dear woman, so sweet, and just as her fretting looked about to begin in earnest, the stupidest question imaginable came tumbling from his lips.

"When did I call you Rinna?" The name made his gut clench, and he could see _her_ face so clearly, twisted and ashen in death.

"In the alienage—" Keelin was frowning, one hand pressed soothingly against his cheek while the other stroked his brow. He had seen mothers tend to sick children in such a way, banishing fevers and chills with tenderness, and just like a small child, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her breast and forget the world. "After that demon knocked you out, you called me _rinna_ as you woke. What does it mean?"

In that filthy orphanage, where ghosts of memory had flitted about his edges. Even abandoned and in squalor, foreign and unknown, it had smelled like fear and desperate children. He'd detested the whole alienage, but that cursed place had been so much worse, and the host of demons determined to burn him and Keelin to crispy elven bits (as well as Leliana, Alistair, and that unfortunate blind templar) hadn't precisely helped matters either.

He remembered the exact moment a fiery, clawed fist had cuffed him so hard he'd thought his head was going to rip from his shoulders. He also remembered searing pain, and the darkness that followed, and the cool touch of a poultice drawing him back into the land of the living sometime later. The idea that he had spoken so foolishly, that he had mistaken _Keelin_—

"I am sorry," he rasped, his throat still tight. He would not lie to her, no matter how simple a thing it might be to create some false, sentimental meaning for Rinna's name. She— they— _both_ Keelin and Rinna— deserved better than that. "It was a mistake. Rinna… Rinna was a woman I knew before I left Antiva. She was the reason I left."

It was Keelin's turn to stiffen, muscles tensing, and Zevran forced the words to come quicker before his lover could draw any conclusions. She had made it clear to him quite early in their acquaintance that his past dalliances were of little consequence, and she had hardly been a blushing virgin either, but to be called another woman's name…

The truth. That was all he could offer. "No, my darling girl, it's not how it sounds. Do you remember the stories I told you of my missions with the Crows? And the final mission, before I came here?"

"You never told me of your last mission." Beyond the concern, the affection, and the anxiety, Zevran saw a spark of shrewdness glinting in his lady's pale eyes. She was, for all her kindness and gentle allure, so dreadfully clever. "Do you mean to tell me now?"

The thought was a little sickening, but he was cornered. _Now_, while she was plunging headfirst into a greater threat than he ever wished to fathom, already wracked with guilt she should have never been made to suffer under, he was about to lay his own darkness at her feet. He should have told her when she'd first asked, or after she'd accepted his earring— perhaps, Maker's breath, perhaps this ghost would not still tear at him so if he had simply _told_ her.

"Yes," he said softly, resisting the urge to hide behind the slender hands that still lingered on his cheeks. "You are… you have been a better friend than I have ever known, and there is no reason to be silent."

She waited, patient and still in the faint green light, and Zevran swallowed thickly. "There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident." Very carefully, he reached up and caught a lock of her hair between his fingers, caressing it softly with his thumb. He might be a cowardly son of a whore, but he could not bear to look her in the face.

"My last mission before this one… did not end well." He had the words, somewhere, but they were elusive and as sharp as razors. He paused, studying the golden strands nearly the same colour as his own, and tried to ignore the lancing pain in his stomach.

She allowed him a long, quiet moment, but it could not last forever. Her voice, when it finally shook him from his dawdling, was apprehensive. "What happened?"

What happened? He'd been a gutless, brainless _fool_, and an incredible woman had paid the price. "You must understand," he continued evenly, remembering shorter, glossy hair the honey brown of aged rum. "Until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often… both as an assassin and lover."

There was a part of him that almost wished for a dig at his expense, simply to break the utter seriousness, but instead Keelin laid her head on his chest, the tips of her fingers slowly stroking along his cheek. "Then what, Zev?"

Spared the weight of her gaze, he found his tongue a bit more easily. "One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting." Efrain Galo, that vicious sack of horseshit. Zevran would never forget, never forgive, and one day he _would_ cut out the bastard's black heart. "My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: a wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.

"Taliesen agreed to be part of my team—" Keelin made a small, displeased sound, but otherwise remained quiet. "As well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was… she was a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired."

He paused, surprised at his own admission. Rinna… Rinna had been a bloody _marvel_, but to imagine his life without Keelin—

"Did you love her?" Had he? It was… from what he had discovered so far, love was a convoluted mess of a thing. Perhaps he had loved her.

Daring too much, but aching for some tether all the same, Zevran pressed a fleeting kiss against the wrist still beside his face. Keelin did not shy away, but he did not allow himself to hope. She did not yet know the whole of it. "Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me.

"When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price, and allowed Taliesen to kill her." The fingers on his cheek ceased their slow stroking, but the touched remained. That was something. "Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and told her even if it were true, I didn't care."

He heard the flat tenor creeping into his voice, the barest hint of the coldness he had shown Rinna, and suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a fierce, steel blue glare. Maker, was this the end? Was it too much—

"That wasn't true," she said, gripping his jaw. It took a moment for his stunned mind to catch up, but blessedly his lover did not seem angry. She was… stern, but not angry, and whatever walls he had begun to rebuild quickly crumbled.

"No—" His voice was too rough, and _he_ _did not want to feel this pain again_, but it stung with every beat of his heart like an infected wound. "No, but I convinced myself it was. Taliesen cut her throat—" It had been the dead of night when they'd woken her, with Taliesen dragging her by her honey brown hair from her bedroll. She'd shrieked and fought like a hellcat, but in the end it was two-on-one, and they'd had the time to prepare. "And I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows."

It had been agony to watch her die, to see the fire in her eyes fade away until she was no different than any other corpse. But the _relief_ he had felt— it shamed him more than he could endure. "When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all."

There were tears on Keelin's cheeks— silent, glittering things. He had never wept for Rinna, and he likely never would, but it was strangely comforting that someone finally had. Someone untarnished by her murder would remember her name. "I am so sorry, Zevran."

He nodded, immensely grateful that she did not protest when he closed his eyes. "I… I wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt."

_Don't be a damned idiot, Zevran. Do we __**all**__ need to suffer for the sake of your guilty conscience? It was a regrettable mistake, granted, but __**death happens**__…_

"We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew… and they didn't care. And one day, my turn would come."

_You thought to keep secrets from the House of Crows, you incompetent cretins? Did you think we would care? You are __**meat**__ made to hold blades, and each of you stupid enough to die is simply less fat left to trim…_

The quiet was dense, crowded by ghosts, but if he tried hard enough Zevran could almost imagine this was any other night… any other peaceful silence they had shared.

Outside, the wind was picking up, whistling high through the sheltering trees and slipping unwelcome through the tent seams. The cool draft shook him from his brooding and made Keelin shiver against him; he swore almost inaudibly before shifting over to lie on his side, tucking her snugly between his own heat and the blankets. The wisp wavered, following its creator as she allowed the move and curled close into his embrace.

"You asked me once—" He spoke mostly into the softness of her hair, but it did not muffle his words nearly so much as he would have preferred. "Why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die." Her fingers tightened where they rested against his shoulder, and she may have drawn distressed breath, but he soldiered on. "What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens, hm? And then… this happened. And here I am."

A kiss pressed against his throat was unexpected, but the feeling of more tears falling on his skin made him frown. Mourning Rinna was one thing, but he would not bear weeping on his account.

His protest went unvoiced, however, as Keelin began to speak. "That is an awful tale." The words vibrated through him, thick with more care than he'd ever known. "I don't— I am so very sorry, my love."

_She knows_ was the first panicked thought that tore through his mind, but no. His darling girl was simply far braver than he, as she had always been. The endearment, so unreservedly sincere, did not turn his stomach to ice as he had feared it might, but it did set his heart pounding.

His reprehensible mistake, the depths of his shame, _Rinna_— Keelin knew of all that. Zevran had no other secrets worth knowing, and he suddenly felt entirely bare. So empty.

So utterly free.

"I— It…" He stuttered, light-headed, but the words came regardless. "It feels good to speak of it to someone. I swore I never would. Whatever it was I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it." _My love_. "I owe you a great deal."

Slender arms wound around him like living rope, making a fine attempt at squeezing the air from his lungs even without calling on her magical strength. "You owe me nothing, Zev," she said fiercely, kissing him again just over the thrum of his pulse. "I… am _glad_ to have you with me."

* * *

A long night of lovemaking and tearful, heartfelt confessions might sound romantic, and it certainly was often played as such in Leliana's tales, but the reality was much… crankier, come morning. Physically, Zevran felt only the slightest buzz of fatigue in his muscles, but mentally he was a ruin. He lacked the fortitude to deal with niceties, at least for the moment, which left either scouting ahead or clinging to Keelin like a limpet if he wanted to avoid testing his patience.

Both options had their drawbacks, but his lover looked dead on her feet, and the absence of anyone besides their familiar company meant he could offer her his arm without fear of weakening the image of a fearless, limitless Grey Warden. In Denerim, Keelin had attempted to remain wisely stalwart, but such hardness was taxing. Here though, among these companions drawn together solely by their connection to _her_… here she could be mortal.

"Ah, careful now," he said teasingly, slipping one arm around her waist as her trudging steps began to drift dangerously. The road, incredibly, was even muddier than it had been the day before, but at least the sun was shining. It wouldn't do to spoil such a promising morning by tumbling into a ditch. "Keep moving westward, _bonita_, and mind your feet."

"I'm fine," she grumbled, elbow jabbing him lightly in the ribs, but she did not pull away. "But you're fretting _and_ mocking, and I'm not sure which is worse."

There was a low whuffing sound, then the soft, drooling muzzle of a mabari brushed his hand where it rested on his lady's hip. Tucked into his belt, his gloves offered no protection from the mess of spit now painted across his skin, but Keelin's pleased murmur was more important than such mild discomfort.

"Hello there, Ser Dog—" Zevran rolled his eyes indulgently as Keelin scratched the beast under its collar. At least it was better than Alistair's failed attempts to label the poor beast _Barkspawn_, of all things. "Are you fretting after me as well? The pair of you are being silly, you know."

"Perhaps," he replied on behalf of both himself and the dog, and leaned in until his lips brushed her ear, nearly purring at the thrill the sight of her earring evoked. Resting was out of the question, of course, but he could try to lighten her mood at least. "But you simply look so tired, my dear. Hmm… do you know what you need?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her lips twitch into a wan little smile. "This I have to hear. What do I need, besides a good night's rest and a dead archdemon?"

He disliked the mention of their looming menace while he was attempting levity, but it let it never be said that Zevran Arainai baulked at such a challenge. The dog whined, as if the reminder of darkspawn and Old Gods was just as unwelcome for its peace of mind, and loped off ahead to walk near the Sten.

"Oh," Keelin whispered, and he felt her shoulders sag ever so slightly, but she did not call the hound back. "I just— I'm trying not to be morbid. Really."

"It's all right." Pressing a kiss against her cheek, Zevran squinted up into the pale, sickly sunlight where it filtered through the haze of clouds. He might never be safe to show his face in Antiva again, but he would revel in the chance to bring Keelin somewhere warm one day, letting the heat of true sun gild her hair and darken her freckles. To shroud himself in such optimism felt strange, but he had no other recourse besides giving into useless dread. "You certainly—"

A buzzing drone began to sound from some distance ahead, resonant and insistent as it approached through the tree line. Their company tensed, and when the great cloud of insects appeared a moment later, shifting and swirling until replaced by Morrigan's human form, the witch's expression did nothing to soothe the unease.

"Much of the land ahead has been blighted," she announced, tucking loosened strands of hair back into her bun. "What animals remain are vicious things, driven mad by sickness. There is also a fresh bandit encampment less than a league westward."

Bandits and blighted beasts were little more than a nuisance, usually, but now was not the time to grow complacent. Some lucky highwayman's axe could prove just as deadly as an ogre's grip, in the proper circumstances.

Beside him, Keelin sighed, but a bit of her dark exhaustion seemed to fade. "It's rarely dull, at least."

Despite everything else, he couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

It gnawed at him, a mild but growing concern as each day of their travel passed, that pockets of tainted corruption surrounded them with not a true darkspawn to be seen. He was not so much of a fool that he kept silent with this particular observation, either— Keelin merely nodded at him, her eyes going muted and nearly unfocused as she answered.

"It's hard to be certain," she said, carefully stepping around the bodies of yet more blight wolves. He offered his hand, and she took it with a grateful glance. "I can sense the taint all around us, but the archdemon—"

"I can hardly hear anything else." Alistair's voice was rough, and the man had the same far-off expression that had been plaguing Keelin. His helm was tucked under one arm, and his gauntlets darkened with toxic blood. "Especially at night. The noise… it's thunderous."

Keelin nodded again, and the Wardens shared a silent, significant look. "Something is changing," she said eventually, acknowledging the attention of the rest of their companions with a glance around. "I'm hoping we will find some answers once we reach Redcliffe."

A tainted Old God did not sing its orders in his mind, but Zevran knew when a situation smelled foul. This trek to Redcliffe was beginning to reek.

* * *

Zevran hissed, but kept his tongue in his head despite the urge to curse a blue streak at the incompetent healer prodding at the pulsing gash torn across his hairline. It was more than a little temping to dismiss the woman outright and instead wait for Wynne to finish with the swathes of gravely injured soldiers and villagers filling any available space in Redcliffe Castle. He had promised Keelin, however, to have himself examined on the small chance it was more serious than a few bruises and scrapes. The unexpected mess they'd found in Redcliffe had disturbed her more than she cared to admit, doubtlessly with good reason. There was little about the situation that did not scream of a swiftly approaching climax... and certainly not in the way he preferred, either.

He was far from death's icy embrace, he was sure, but his lover was deep in talks with the nobility and her fellow Wardens. The last thing he wished was to trouble her with something so paltry as his own minor injuries, if he could avoid it. Thus he endured the pathetic poking and cold hands, holding the poultice against his head when he was instructed, and amused himself with the thought that Oghren was the next patient on this woman's list.

The dwarf was laid out on a makeshift pallet just next to Zevran's seat, with the heavy breastplate already stripped from his filthy body, and his eyes flashing feverish with the lingering tendrils of berserker rage and the addling effects of the swelling egg on his own head. Yes, Oghren seemed a perfect candidate for this woman's tender care.

"You'll be fine, ser," she said finally, and Zevran dredged up just enough charm to smile blandly at her in thanks. Oghren grunted as the healer moved to kneel beside him, almost a giggle, and Zevran took the opportunity to make himself scarce.

The main hall was quieter when he entered than it had been when they'd first arrived. Glancing around the sparse crowd, Zevran tightened the buckles of his cuirass and deposited the majority of his poultice in a pile of dirty bandages lying near a pair of empty pallets. A bit of the elfroot mash still clung to his wound, and the numbing sensation was actually rather welcome.

Eamon was on his dais, speaking intently to the half dozen armoured knights standing before him, but none of the Wardens was anywhere to be seen. Besides Oghren and Wynne, he seemed to have lost track of the rest of their party as well. Wretched, bleeding Redcliffe.

He hailed down a guardsman, and was told the Wardens had retired to their chambers for the evening. Apparently, they planned to make all haste back to Denerim at first light— the armies were being readied for a forced march, the horde was descending on the city with the archdemon at its head, and Zevran needed to speak with Keelin immediately. This… _this_ was what he had felt lurking. They had been outplayed by a damned dragon.

He was directed towards a familiar stretch of corridor in one of the castle's upper floors, not far from the room he and Keelin had shared during their first stay in Redcliffe. Passing _that_ room, the very first they had shared intimately, despite his uneasiness the memory was sweet enough to send a twist of warmth through him.

Coming around a final bend, following the path as it had been described, Zevran mentally cursed bewildered guardsmen— the door he found was partially ajar, but the woman who turned to him as he slipped inside was not his Warden.

"Morrigan," he greeted, perhaps somewhat brusquely, before reining himself. "Beg pardon, dear woman, but do you know where Keelin's room might be? I seem to be turned around."

The witch's golden eyes looked quite feral by the roaring hearth, and Zevran had the distinct impression he was being weighed and measured. It wasn't nearly as sexy as it could have been, in vastly different circumstances.

"'Tis her room you've found," Morrigan said after a long, appraising moment. "She is no doubt speaking with Riordan and Alistair regarding the coming battle. Then she and I have grave matters to discuss."

His hackles began to rise, not in anger but suspicion. Keeping his gaze firmly on the witch, Zevran padded farther into the room. "Well then, that does sound rather foreboding. I've this strange inkling that there is something you know… something you've _known_. About the archdemon?"

There was a crackle, not from the fire but in the air, and Zevran recognised the warning. Keeping his arms loose at his sides, he stopped his slow approach. "I know many things," Morrigan replied flatly. "Stay, Zevran. Your presence may assist my efforts, and certainly you will agree with my premise. I seek to vastly improve her chances of surviving this battle."

Damn it all.

There were sinister secrets woven through her words, as always, but danger and promise as well. Zevran did not relax for an instant. "You have my attention."

"Good." Something vaguely akin to a smile graced Morrigan's face ever so briefly. It was not a comfort. "Now silence. The Warden comes."

Keelin did appear shortly thereafter, and Zevran nearly forgot about Morrigan's ominous presence when he caught sight of his lover's ashen face and shaking hands. He went to her without hesitation, cupping her cheek with one hand and feeling her shiver.

"What is it," he murmured, keeping his voice soothing and calm. "What's happened?"

For his efforts, he was rewarded with an armful of utterly mute woman. Keelin curled herself against him, as she had done far too often in grief these past weeks, and he embraced her tightly in return.

He was rather focused on the rapid pulse of her heartbeat, fluttering like that of a frightened doe, but he did not miss the quiet clearing of Morrigan's throat before the witch began to speak. "You have spoken with Riordan then?"

Keelin went rigid in his arms, and Zevran was nearly grinding his teeth at his own ignorance. Something crucial was occurring, and he riled at being kept so long in the dark.

"What—" Stepping back, but keeping one hand pressed against his chest, his lady regarded their _visitor_ with confusion. "Morrigan? Is something wrong?"

The witch shifted her stance, arms crossed beneath her bosom, and raised her dark brows. "You already know something is quite wrong indeed, my friend. Had you planned to tell your lover of the terrible knowledge you've gained tonight? Of the sacrifice required?"

Dread settled cold and heavy in his gut. The horde's feint to Denerim had only been part of the menace he'd sensed.

"How did you—" As the hand withdrew, taking Keelin a faltering step farther from him, Zevran felt all the warmth in his body dragged along with it. Sacrifice. _Sacrifice_. "How long have you known? You called me _sister_— Andraste's blood, why did you not tell me?"

That prompted the smallest flinch from Morrigan, almost unnoticeable. "I could not be sure that you, or more likely Alistair, would believe me. Would it have made a difference to the duty laid out before you now?"

That was more than enough. Ignoring Morrigan's command for silence, Zevran frowned at both women and raised his voice. "Duty," he said questioningly, and his frustration flared to anger as his lover turned her face from him. "Sacrifice? What _terrible knowledge_ does she speak of, Keelin?"

After a long, uneasy moment, it became painfully clear Keelin would not look at him, would not answer; Morrigan had no such compunctions. "The death of the archdemon," she replied, drumming long fingers slowly over her own forearm. "Demands the life of a Grey Warden. Without a Warden's sacrifice, at the moment of the killing blow, the beast will simply be reborn in another body."

The life— _No_.

"What's your bargain, then?" He heard his voice, the fierce sound of it, but the words themselves spilled out of their own volition. Of course the witch had a bargain to offer. She would not be there otherwise. "What is required? Speak and you shall have it, no matter the cost."

"Zevran—" _Now_ his darling had the strength to face him, when he was ready to sell his soul— sell a thousand souls— to spare them such a sacrifice. "_Stop_, please. You— a bargain? What are you talking about?"

"I have a solution to offer; the loop in your hole. Old, powerful magic." Morrigan moved from the fire, perching on the end of the great sprawling bed, but there was only one detail Zevran cared for. _What will save her? _"A ritual meant to keep the corruption of the archdemon from burning your very essence away. I simply need you to convince Alistair that such a thing should be done to save you both. I require his cooperation."

His palms were itching; there were all manner of ways he could _convince_ Alistair of the importance of such a task, regardless of the particulars. He might have even voiced such a notion, had Keelin not turned to him with a look of sharpest warning.

"Do not think it." Her words were pitched low and grave with command. "I would never, ever forgive you."

It wasn't magic, probably, but his beloved Keelin did know him rather well. It chafed, in this particular instance.

"We have precious little time for squabbling," Morrigan said, but the thread of disdain he had expected was absent from her level tone. "I do not require the lifeblood of a hundred innocents or anything so dire, but what I ask is rather… delicate. Believe what you will, but I do consider you my friend, sister; saving your life is truly among my goals."

Keelin buried her face in her hands, and despite his frustration— truly, why was this a question _at all_— Zevran did not stop himself from going to her again. She allowed his hesitant embrace, and with his cheek resting lightly on her hair, he found some measure of calm.

Forcing himself to take in a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the witch. "What sort of ritual is it, then?"

* * *

That was… not what he'd expected.

Having detailed her proposal, Morrigan yielded to their request for a few moments of privacy, slipping into the corridor to await Keelin's decision. Now, with the click of the door's latch leaving just the pair of them together, Zevran knew precisely what he must do.

"Please," he said quietly, squeezing her soft, blessed body close to his for a moment before stepping back and sinking to his knees. Shame held no sway over him when the price of failure was so high. "I am begging you, my darling girl. _Please_ do this, for me."

"Zevran—" Her fingers brushing gently through his hair, that soothing touch… it felt too much like an apology. Like refusal.

"_No_." Gripping her hips, he glared up at her heartbroken expression, his voice cracking with mounting fury. "Don't deny me this! Don't promise me a future and then snatch it away! I, _brasca_, I am _begging _you— I can't—" He fought to keep his thoughts clear enough for the Common Tongue, words stumbling over each other. "Maker's mercy, please, _mi amora_. Do not... do not steal my hope from me now, when the odds are already so grim. Please."

Nails dug into his scalp, pulling at his clotted wound, but the pain was welcome. It meant she was not fleeing from him— not yet, anyway.

Her eyes met his, searching, and he held nothing back. Never in his life had it been so vital to lay himself bare, and damn the consequences. Eventually, she spoke. "A child with the soul of an Old God. If that…" He felt her shudder, but then something glimmered in her gaze. It was raw emotion, a strange look he could not place, but somehow it all but stopped his heart.

"Fine," she whispered, and his chest began hammering madly. "I will… for you, Zevran, I will speak to Alistair. I will try."

* * *

_AN: Maker's balls, I'm making myself tense. Ugh. _


	11. Chapter 11

It was no small thing to make such an oath, and an oath it had been, after all; his lover would not have played him false. It was quite another thing, however, to begin such an… awkward arrangement. They managed to make it within sight of Alistair's room before doubt overtook resolve.

"I don't know what I'm going to say to him," Keelin whispered through her fingers, shooting a terrified glance at the waiting door as she leaned against the corridor wall. "How… what am I meant to say? How can I ask him to do this?"

The questions were at least half rhetorical, he knew, but he could hardly remain silent. Weighing his words very carefully, Zevran did not allow himself to be distracted by the scarce handful of steps that separated him from the man who held the key to Keelin's salvation in his smallclothes.

The Maker had a vicious sense of humour, but Zevran had always known that to be true.

"Grey Wardens do whatever must be done to stop a Blight, yes? You have told me this yourself, _amora_." At his lover's small nod, he continued, gently guiding her hand away from her face. "Even the most unsavoury of things, if necessity demands it. There are only three Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, and a horde that could number tens of thousands strong between you and the dragon. What if—" He bent to press a desperate kiss against her knuckles, swallowing back his frustration. "Maker's breath, every darkspawn in Denerim will be out for your blood. What if none of you can make it to the archdemon? If Morrigan is to be believed, then the soul of the beast will be absorbed by her child regardless of who strikes the killing blow. Is that assurance alone not worth it?"

It stung a little when she pulled free from his touch, but it would be worth it in the end. For all her honour and sense of duty, his Keelin riled against cages with ferocity. He had learned months before that the very best way to achieve a goal was to assure this young mage that something could not be done— even without his pleading, she certainly could not be content to accept death without a fight. The woman… the woman he _loved_ was far more obstinate than that.

"I hope it is," she said, staring down at the door once more. "Holy Andraste, I pray that it's worth it. I don't—" He heard the steel begin to wind its way into her voice, the familiar determination, and it was so uplifting he nearly gasped. "I don't want to die, Zev… not like that."

"Then speak to your brother." He kept a firm leash on the flood of emotion that was wracking him, incredibly annoyed by this entire ordeal. Traipsing off to slay an archdemon was bad enough without allowing his weakness to overtake him— he'd been trained better than that. "There are many good reasons he should consent to this exchange. Granted, _I_ only care for one of them."

It was foolish sentiment that drove him to kiss her then, cradling her jaw gently in his hands, but she did not resist as he'd half-expected her to do. No, instead she gripped his baldric and pressed close against him, fighting not to end the kiss, but to control it. It was startling, to say the least, but instinct told him to submit, allowing his lady to take everything she needed from him without question.

Her weight shifted, pinning him to the wall, and he could feel her trembling like a dry leaf in the breeze even as she claimed such fervent possession of his mouth. It was not amorous, but it was passionate and desperate, and _he would not lose her now_.

He felt a whisper of cold spark along his tongue when she pulled away, and watched the bee-stung pinkness recede from her lips. It would not have been especially polite, of course, to request such a favour while looking ravished.

"I will try," she said again, quiet and firm, and then she was gone from his arms.

* * *

He knew himself well enough that he did not attempt to eavesdrop, even as impatience made him twitch and pace. Keelin had proven incredibly adept at negotiation, and regardless of anything else, she still held Alistair's affection quite strongly. To interfere would be to court nothing but trouble.

If Alistair happened to refuse, however, Zevran would not hesitate to encourage reconsideration.

Such measures were not required, thankfully. Melted into the shadows like a wraith, Zevran watched as a pale, grimacing Alistair followed Keelin back to Morrigan, emerging sometime later with only the witch and the same sickly expression. It was a staggering relief to witness; having gotten this far, the dutiful and honourable man was almost guaranteed to remain true to his word. The bargain had been accepted.

Keelin was already crying when he entered their room— shuddering, heartbreaking sobs— and for an instant he nearly fled. It was instinct, animalistic terror, but shame heated his face at the very thought, and he forced his legs to carry him towards her instead. Gently, giving her the chance to retreat if she fancied, Zevran stepped close, resting his cheek against her temple as he enfolded her in an embrace.

She did not speak, for which he was both grateful and concerned. The rest of the night was spent in strained silence, heavy and tense, but despite the foul atmosphere, he did not feel isolated. His lover stayed near, allowing him to hold her until she finally drifted into uneasy sleep, but even then he could sense her reaching out for him, seeking. Seeking _what_, he was not certain, but the meagre comfort of his presence seemed enough.

That was… not an entirely terrible thought. Not truly.

* * *

On more occasions in his past than he might have preferred, Zevran had been dragged back from various states of forced unconsciousness and near-death. It was painful, often terrifying, and he made a habit of avoiding it whenever possible. Recently, he had invariably found a beautiful young mage waiting for him as he clawed his way home from his fleeting forays beyond the Veil, which was something quite wonderful during such misery. He wouldn't call it _worth it_, especially when he could wake up beside her without a cracked skull…

_This_, though— no, he did not like this.

Denerim had been ravaged, broken by the brutal might of the horde, and even with the armies they had managed to gather, it was nothing short of a miracle that any of them lived to see the top of Fort Drakon. It hadn't _felt_ like much of a miracle, face to face with a blighted nightmare made flesh, but the beast was already bleeding when they arrived, and they were still breathing; that was something.

By the end of the battle, there were places on the fort's roof where bodies piled waist deep. Darkspawn corpses made up the bulk of the dead, it appeared, but there were still more causalities amongst Denerim's defenders than Keelin would like, no doubt.

If she woke.

No, he did not like this waiting, this _useless waiting_ over the motionless body of his lover. He would apologise profusely when she woke for ever having put her through such agony.

She was limp, so small and frail against the filthy stone of the rooftop, and he wanted nothing more than to gather her up and spirit her away from all this horror. The dragon was dead, a stinking carcass leaking a river of putrid black blood, and his lover's task was _complete_. She was _his_ now, and nothing—

Very gently, he flicked a lock of sweat-darkened hair away from her brow. Her skin was icy cold, nearly enough to burn, but he hardly felt it. The blue corona of Wynne's healing magic seemed to cling to his fingertips, lifting slightly like silk caught on roughness, and he snatched his hand back as quick as lightning. Stupid _bastard_— he would _not_ interfere.

He watched the slow, shallow rise and fall of Keelin's chest, heard the dangerous wet sound of her breathing, and he did not think twice about beginning to pray.

_Holy Maker, please, do not take her. Whatever I have done, whatever my sin, I beg you do __**not**__— _

There was a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth, but it was the bright red of a split lip rather than the deep crimson he knew to fear. He would be howling in rage at Morrigan's deception, but Keelin still breathed, still _lived,_ if barely… having one's soul immolated by the darkest of corruptions would be beyond fatal, but being battered by a dragon could be equally so. The energy that burst outward when the beast finally died had decimated the rooftop; survivors and corpses alike were tossed aside like rag dolls. Zevran had felt the explosion hit him with more force than a golem's fist, shaking him to his core, and Keelin had been trapped in the eye of that terrible storm.

_Please, Maker… She is favoured among your children, surely. Do not take her from this world… Mercy, oh Maker, do not take her from me, __**please**__…_

He could hear her over the pounding in his ears, her voice quiet and willowy as it had been that night outside Redcliffe when she'd given him a packet of deathroot leaves and a painfully sweet kiss on the cheek. As soft as it had been when she'd made his heart stutter so madly that first time.

_And what if I chose you? Would we still be friends, no matter what happened later?_

He'd had no idea what friendship was, not truly, and even less understanding of this remarkable woman. His beautiful, darling girl.

_I love you, Zevran. I hope you know that._

"So cruel," he murmured, heedless of the bruised and bleeding crowd that had assembled all around them. Wynne did not look up from her intent spellcasting, kneeling on Keelin's other side with sweat tracking paths through the dirt and gore splattered across her lined face. The intense light of healing magic was beginning to waiver, like a candle gutted by wind, and Zevran could taste nothing but ashes. "Remember your promise, hm? No goodbyes, _mi amora_… not yet."

He would follow wherever she led, of course. It was simply too soon for an end, when he had been such a fool for so very long.

_Please come back to me, my love, my darling girl_—

She coughed, a great bubbling heave of blood frothing from her mouth, but what would usually be such a dire sign filled him with incandescent hope. She was _still_ coughing, but now the hacking was dry and frantic, turning to gasps as her eyes fluttering open, and her body began to shift and move. It was like watching a person saved from drowning, sputtering and confused, and Zevran _just_ managed to wait until the glow of healing faded completely before laying his hands upon his lover, desperate for her living warmth.

Already trying to push herself up onto her elbows, Keelin grunted in what sounded like discomfort when he slid his arm under her shoulders, yet still she latched onto his bracer and all but dragged herself to him. Very, very carefully, Zevran gathered her close, sparing a questioning glance at an exhausted Wynne.

Fingers fumbling numbly for one of the shimmering lyrium vials tucked into her belt, Wynne seemed to fold in upon herself, slumping back to sit and rest a moment amongst the mire of the roof. "Take care, Zevran. Her ribs are still weak."

He nearly laughed, but he was quite aware how hysteric such a thing would sound. Instead, he settled for pressing his nose against the tangled mess of Keelin's hair, seeking her scent under all the filth and matted blood. It was faint, a hint of honey and _her_, but it overwhelmed his senses all the same.

* * *

She was conscious, but hardly lucid as the survivors began to gather themselves— not at all surprising with her wounds and the sheer amount of lyrium she'd ingested over the course of the battle. She spoke nothing of any sense as the few remaining mages continued to patch up the most grievously wounded, just pieces of mumbled phrases and nonsense. There was an agitated edge to her quiet babbling, but she seemed to calm when he began whispering Antivan against her ear. Wynne had insisted that his lady not be moved, especially not the long journey down through the fort, until they could have a proper litter prepared.

Alistair was standing nearby, blessedly silent for once, though Zevran did not miss the way his mouth would open on occasion, only to close again soundlessly. As much as the man had been a thorn in his side, and as tense as their relationship remained, Zevran did not find himself resentful of his company or his anxiety. They were bound up, in a sense, by their affection for this woman… In truth, Zevran could not spare a thought for bitterness.

Eventually, help arrived. Those still on the roof were collected, and Zevran did not protest when Alistair assisted in lifting Keelin onto a litter. She was not heavy by any means, but Zevran could already feel the watery trembling in his muscles begin in earnest, and the excruciating fire shooting up his leg with every step forced him to take on a very obvious limp. The mages were all busy seeing to serious injuries, Wynne having stumbled off to tend a dangerously clammy looking Arl Eamon, but Zevran was determined that he would neither hinder the two elven servants who lifted his lover, nor be left behind. He would endure, for her.

A hand on his shoulder nearly made him lash out, nerves still singing, but he managed to keep himself in check. Alistair looked down at him, his smile wan and apologetic, and did not step back.

"Come on, Zev," he said, voice hoarse. "She'll be terribly annoyed if you cripple yourself. Lean on me."

He simply nodded, shifting his balance and swinging his arm over Alistair's back. The man was too tall for it to be an entirely comfortable position, but broad and strong enough to take Zevran's weight even while they both ached from battle. It was a cautious walk down into Fort Drakon— the journey had seemed so much shorter on the way up, even with droves of darkspawn slavering around every corner.

Alistair was beginning to fade by the time they made it out of the fort, but thankfully there were several wagons waiting to ferry the wounded to the infirmary tents. The harried healers were sorting through the casualties as they poured out into the fort's courtyard, and Zevran was both relieved and concerned when Keelin's condition did not immediately merit transportation.

"Maker's breath," the healer seeing to them gasped when he checked her eyes, having already peeled aside torn robes to prod gingerly at her bruised abdomen. "She's nearly addled. Nothing to do but wait and hope most of lyrium works itself out quickly. I should—" The man laid his fingers against the side of her neck, but shook his head after one silent moment. Zevran felt his heart contract painfully, as Alistair tensed beside him. "No, I would give her something to empty her stomach, but the strain could kill her. Likely wouldn't help anyway, just… just sit with her. If there is any change, let someone know immediately. I'll send over an apprentice to splint that leg until we can spare a mage."

There was a shout across the courtyard, another group of wounded coming through the doors, and the healer sprinted off without another word. Glancing from the makeshift palette where Keelin lay prone, then back up to the imposing spire of the fort, Alistair grunted in frustration. "I really hate this place."

Careful of his leg, which was beginning to swell around his calf quite painfully, Zevran extracted himself from the other man and slowly lowered himself to sit on the ground just beside Keelin. Her face was flushed, almost fever red, but it was better than pale and waxy. When he stroked his fingers along her cheekbone and down the line of her cheek, she blinked at him with huge, dilated eyes struggling to focus, but did not speak.

"As do I, my friend," he murmured, then turned back to Alistair and motioned to a patch of bare ground. "Sit, if you wish."

The man was surprised at the offer and piss poor at hiding it, but he sat without question. For the most part, Zevran ignored his presence, though it was not meant unkindly. Regardless, Alistair did not seem to mind, taking the time to catch his breath and watch Keelin slowly come back to herself.

Eventually, some portly mage in muddy green robes came over and replaced the incessant throbbing in Zevran's calf with a blast of cold and a sharp stab of agony. There would be stiffness for a day or so, but he would walk without any lingering problems. Then, shortly thereafter the three of them were piled into a wagon and trundled off towards their army's main camp.

* * *

Zevran woke from his light doze when Keelin began to shift on her cot, squeezing her hand softly when she murmured some half-sensible question. He'd laced his fingers with hers before drifting off, driven by a sentimental need for connection even as she was lost to her own dark dreams.

"Zev— Zevran?" His gesture was returned, slender fingers tightening between his own, but he was not willing to embrace hope so easily. Since his lover had awoken on the Fort Drakon roof, she had called him by name more than once, but also mistaken him for others just as easily in her delirium. He had been Jowan, Alistair, Duncan… even Papa, which had been said with such heartbreak that it nearly undid him.

This time, however, when she turned her head to look at him, he could tell she was finally present. Her eyes, bloodshot and still a little hazy, saw him— not _through_ him. It was such a vital difference, he had discovered.

"Zev," she said again, confused but not obviously addled, and he surged up from his recline to kneel next to her, cupping her jaw with his free hand. Whispers of _Warden_, _archdemon_, and _hero_ had secured them a quiet, almost private corner of the main infirmary tent, but an audience would not have mattered even if a dozen Grand Clerics and the Divine Justinia were looming at his back, waiting for a show.

Some light-hearted jibe about sleeping the day away caught on the tip of his tongue; he wanted to reassure her, to hear her laugh even a little, but he could not piece together the words in any language he knew. It was… _frustrating_ and foolish, so instead of staring like a dullard, he leaned in and caught her in a gentle kiss.

She tasted of copper, and a strange tang he recognised as lyrium— he thought of honey and violets, and broke the kiss abruptly, dropping his head to lay nestled against her chest, feeling not wholly unlike a babe. Her torn, filthy robes had been stripped away by the healers, leaving only smallclothes, bandages, and blankets in their wake, but he made no attempt to seek more of her skin. His mind was a maelstrom, but her heartbeat was a strong and steady rhythm in his ear, keeping him tethered. It was enough,_ more_ than enough, to feel the life in her.

"Where are… wait, we _did_ it," she said softly, her words vibrating into his bones as her hand carded into his hair. "Andraste's grace, the archdemon— we did it, Zev, it's _over_—"

* * *

The change in her breathing roused him, curled against his side as she was, but Zevran kept his eyes closed. It still felt very early, quite likely before dawn, and the Hero of Ferelden deserved her rest after enduring so much pomp and circumstance over the past days. Being paraded through Denerim like the risen Andraste had been awkward for his lover, and Alistair had fared little better, but now the ceremonies were through. Now the world might have a chance to stop spinning, but Zevran had his doubts. Excitement, of both the good and ill variety, did seem to follow his beloved as closely as her faithful hound.

There had been no thrashing, no tense muscles or distressed cries— it had not been a nightmare that woke her, and he expected her to settle easily back into sleep. Instead, he heard her quiet, sleepy giggle, and made no attempt to suppress a shiver when her lips found his throat and her hand skated low across his stomach.

"Mmm, minx," he purred, arching into her touch, and felt her smile against his skin. The Denerim palace still stunk faintly of smoke and death, even with repair teams already working diligently to mend the damage left by the horde, but the spacious rooms they had been afforded— complete with fine sheets and soft mattress— more than made up for it. It was Fereldan luxury, which would do for the moment, but Zevran was already considering where he might convince his lover to travel, if only for a time…

He would see her basking in bright sunlight, resplendent in silks, and make love to her under familiar stars. She would savour jasmine tea and perfectly ripened fruit, and dance with him to the music of drums and lillo flutes, with the sand shifting soft and warm under their feet. These were the sort of dreams she stirred in him, things he had never allowed himself to consider, and he could very nearly taste them.

But he knew the Wardens would not let their celebrated sister go so easily, especially not when her fame would so bolster the revival of the Grey in Ferelden, and the shadow of the Crows barred him from his homeland. If he asked, _truly_ asked, he thought she might go with him, Warden business be damned. Whether or not she would feel guilt, however, and how poisonous that guilt might be… he was not certain.

He _was_ certain, at that precise moment, that he was utterly at the mercy of a deadly, gorgeous woman who seemed intent on playing him as skilfully as a minstrel with a lute. Despite his musings, he could hardly ignore that fact.

Letting his eyes slit open lazily, Zevran made no move to take the lead in this dance, quite content to enjoy all the benefits of his lover's enthusiasm. Running his hand along the smooth line of her ribs, he groaned deeply when she took his earlobe between her teeth and twisted her wrist just so.

"Ah, _mi amora_—" She was. Maker's breath, she _was_. "My darling girl… I am yours."

"Yes," she whispered, then brushed a feather-light kiss against his cheek. Her voice curled into every fibre of his being like smoke, filling him up. "Yes, you are."

**END**

* * *

_AN: Oh wow... it's finished. I hope you enjoyed reading this even half as much as I loved writing it, truly. I'm a little teary, more than a little sad, but I feel strangely good about this, too._


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